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PROSE  AND    POETIC  WORKS.     Including  Poems,  Victorian 
Poets,  Poets  of  America,  and  The  Nature  and  Elements  of 
Poetry.    4  vols.  uniform,  crown  8vo,  gilt  top,  in  box,  $7.50. 
POEMS.    New  Household  Edition.    With  Portrait  and  Illustra- 

tions.    izmo,  Ji.so;  full  gilt,  $2.00. 
HAWTHORNE,  AND  OTHER  POEMS.     i6mo,  $1.25. 
FAVORITE  POEMS.     32mo,  75  cents. 
VICTORIAN  POETS.     Revised  and  enlarged  Edition.     Crown 

8vo,  gilt  top,  12.25. 
POETS  OF  AMERICA.     A  companion  volume  to  "Victorian 

Poets."    Crown  8vo,  gilt  top,  $2.25. 
THE  NATURE  AND  ELEMENTS  OF  POETRY.    Crown  8vo, 

gilt  top,  $1.50. 
ELIZABETH    BARRETT  BROWNING.     An  Essay.     32mo,  75 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  COMPANY, 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


THE 

POETICAL  WORKS      .  /  / 

/AX 
EDMUND  CLARENCE   STEDMAN 

Oousrtjolo  CDttion 

WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON  MID    NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

mtrsiOr 


Copyright,  1860,  1863,  1869,  1873,  1877,  1884,  1888,  and  1891, 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER,  GEORGE  W.  CARLETON,  FIELDS, 
OSGOOD  &  CO.,  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO., 
AND  EDMUND  C.  STEDMAN. 


All  rights  reserved. 


Tht  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Company. 


THIS  COLLECTION 
IS  AFFECTIONATELY  AND  REVERENTLY 


TO    MY    MOTHER. 


£<2>  \  0 

co' 


CONTENTS. 


EARLY  POEMS.    (Published  1860.)  PAGE 

BOHEMIA  :  A  PILGRIMAGE 3 

THE  DIAMOND  WEDDING 10 

PENELOPE .  «7 

THE  SINGER 21 

HELIOTROPE 21 

ROSEMARY 23 

SUMMER  RAIN 25 

Too  LATE 28 

VOICE  OF  THE  WESTERN  WIND 29 

FLOOD-TIDE      , 3° 

APOLLO 4° 

THE  ORDEAL  BY  FIRE      ........  40 

THE  PROTEST  OF  FAITH      ......••  44 

THE  FRESHET 48 

THE  SLEIGH-RIDE 56 

THE  BALLAD  OF  LAGER  BIER 58 

How  OLD  BROWN  TOOK  HARPER'S  FERRY        ....  64 


SONNETS. 

HOPE   DEFERRED ^l 

A  MOTHER'S  PICTURE 72 


x  CONTENTS. 

POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 

ELFIN  SONG 75 

AMAVI 79 

ODE  TO  PASTORAL  ROMANCE 80 

ALICE   OF   MONMOUTH  AND  OTHER  POEMS.    (Published  1864.) 
ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH 91 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

ALECTRYON 145 

THE  TEST 152 

THE  OLD  LOVE  AND  THE  NEW 154 

ESTELLE 158 

EDGED  TOOLS 160 

THE  SWALLOW 162 

REFUGE  IN  NATURB 163 

MONTAGU 165 

WILD  WINDS  WHISTLB 168 

PETER  STUYVES ANT'S  NEW  YEAR'S  CALL  .        .       .        •  170 

TRANSLATION. 

JEAN  PROUVAIRE'S  SONG  AT  THE  BARRICADE        .        .        .179 

THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE  AND  OTHER  POEMS.    (Published  1869.) 
THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE 187 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 
I.   SONGS  AND  STUDIES. 

SURF 337 

TOUJOURS  AMOUR 238 

LAURA,  MY  DARLING 239 

THE  TRYST 240 

VIOLET  EYES     .........  241 

THE  DOORSTEP 242 

FUIT  ILIUM 244 

COUNTRY  SLEIGHING 247 


CONTENTS.  XI 

PAN  IN  WALL  STREET        .....••  250 

ANONYMA 253 

SPOKEN  AT  SEA 255 

THE  DUKE'S  EXEQUY 257 

THE  HILLSIDE  DOOR    ........  259 

AT  TWILIGHT 261 

II.   POEMS  OF  NATURE. 

WOODS  AND  WATERS 363 

To  BAYARD  TAYLOR        .......  265 

THE  MOUNTAIN 266 

HOLYOKE  VALLEY    .        .        ......  270 

THE  FEAST  OF  HARVEST    .......  272 

AUTUMN  SONG •  275 

WHAT  THE  WINDS  BRING 275 

BETROTHED  ANEW  .        .......  276 

III.   SHADOW-LAND. 

"  THE  UNDISCOVERED  COUNTRY  n 278 

"DARKNESS  AND  THE  SHADOW" 279 

THE  ASSAULT  BY  NIGHT 279 

GEORGE  ARNOLD       ........  281 

THE  SAD  BRIDAL 283 

OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

SL-MTER 287 

WANTED  — A  MAN 289 

TREASON'S  LAST  DEVICE 291 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN •       .  293 

ISRAEL  FREYER'S  BID  FOR  GOLD 293 

CUBA 297 

CRETE 299 

THE  OLD  ADMIRAL 300 

GETTYSBURG 3°3 

DARTMOUTH  ODE 310 

HORACE  GREELEY 321 


xii  CONTENTS. 

KEARNY  AT  SEVEN  PINES 324 

CUSTBR 325 

THE  COMEDIAN'S  LAST  NIGHT 327 

THE  MONUMENT  OF  GREELEY 329 

NEWS  FROM  OLYMPIA 334 

LE  JOUR  DU  ROSSIGNOL 33& 

MERIDIAN 33& 

TRANSLATIONS. 

I.  THE  DEATH  OF  AGAMEMNON  (FROM  HOMER)     .        .        -351 

II.   THE  DEATH  OF  AGAMEMNON  (FROM  AISCHYLOS)     .        .  355 

LATER   POEMS. 

THE  SONGSTER 365 

CRABBED  AGE  AND  YOUTH 369 

STANZAS  FOR  Music      .  371 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  BIRDS 372 

HYPATIA 373 

THE  HEART  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 376 

THE  DISCOVERER   .        . 380 

SISTER  BEATRICE 382 

SEEKING  THE  MAYFLOWER 389 

HAWTHORNE 391 

ALL  IN  A  LIFETIME 398 

THE  SKULL  IN  THE  GOLD  DRIFT 400 

SONG  FROM  A  DRAMA 403 

THE  SUN-DIAL 404 

MADRIGAL 405 

WITH  A  SPRIG  OF  HEATHER 406 

THE  LORD'S-DAY  GALE 407 

L'ENVOI. 

ADVATKM .415 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PORTRAIT  OF  E.  C.  STEDMAN Frontispiece 

"  And  the  gentle  summer  rain 

Cooled  the  fevered  earth  again  " 26 

"  Hark !   the  jingle 

Of  the  sleigh-bells'  song  " 56 

"  Often  the  yacht  with  all  sail    spread  " 98 

"  When  April  rains  " 121 

"  Once  more  on  the  fallow  hillside  " 154 

"  The  open  sea  bore  commerce  to  her  marts  " 189 

"  Blue  rollers  breaking  in  surf  where  we  stand  "  237 

"  Two  thousand  feet  in  air  it  stands  " 266 

"  The  sunlight  fills  the  trembling  air  "      .        .        .        .   '     .        .  276 

"  Every  broadside  swept  to  death  a  score  " 301 

"  The  blast  is  chill,  yet  in  the  upper  sky 

Thou  still  canst  find  the  color  of  thy  wing  " 373 


EARLY    POEMS. 


EARLY    POEMS. 


BOHEMIA. 

A  PILGRIMAGE. 
I. 

JX7HEN  buttercups  are  blossoming, 

The  poets  sang,  'tis  best  to  wed : 
So  all  for  love  we  paired  in  Spring  — 
Blanche  and  I  —  ere  youth  had  sped, 
For  Autumn's  wealth  brings  Autumn's  wane. 
Sworn  fealty  to  royal  Art 
Was  ours,  and  doubly  linked  the  chain, 
With  symbols  of  her  high  domain, 
That  twined  us  ever  heart  to  heart ; 

And  onward,  like  the  Babes  in  the  Wood, 
We  rambled,  till  before  us  stood 
The  outposts  of  Bohemia. 

II. 

For,  roaming  blithely  many  a  day, 
Eftsoons  our  little  hoard  of  gold, 
Like  Christian's  follies,  slipt  away, 
Unloosened  from  the  pilgrim's  hold, 
But  left  us  just  as  blithe  and  free ; 


EARL  Y  POEMS. 

Whereat  our  footsteps  turned  aside 

From  lord  and  lady  of  degree, 

And  bore  us  to  that  brave  countree 

Where  merrily  we  now  abide,  — 
That  proud  and  humble,  poor  and  grand, 
Enchanted,  golden  Gypsy- Land, 
The  Valley  of  Bohemia. 


Together  from  the  higher  clime, 
By  terraced  cliff  and  copse  along, 
Adown  the  slant  we  stept,  in  time 
To  many  another  pilgrim's  song, 
And  came  where  faded  far  away, 
Each  side,  the  kingdom's  ancient  wall, 
From  breaking  unto  dying  day  ; 
Beyond,  the  magic  valley  lay, 
With  glimpse  of  shimmering  stream  and  fall 
And  here,  between  twin  turrets,  ran, 
Built  o'er  with  arch  and  barbacan, 
The  entrance  to  Bohemia. 


Beneath  the  lichened  parapet 
Grim-sculptured  Gog  and  Magog  bore 
The  Royal  Arms,  —  Hope's  Anchor,  set 
In  azure,  on  a  field  of  or, 
With  pendent  mugs,  and  hands  that  wield 
A  lute  and  tambour,  graven  clear ; 
What  seemed  a  poet's  scroll  revealed 
The  antique  legend  of  the  shield  : 
Cambrinus.  2&ex.  fjeUie.SBassatlle.fjere. 

30gntU.  fantfj.  ge.  l&tnge.  0f.  gfaetot. 

©.  faorlUe-foorne.  pilgrim,  passe,  belofoe. 
STo.  tntre.  fagre. 


BOHEMIA. 


No  churlish  warder  barred  the  gate, 
Nor  other  pass  was  needed  there 
Than  equal  heart  for  either  fate, 
And  barren  scrip,  and  hope  to  spare. 
Through  the  gray  archway,  hand  in  hand, 
We  walked,  beneath  the  rampart  high, 
And  on  within  the  wondrous  land  ; 
There,  changed  as  by  enchanter's  wand, 
My  sweetheart,  fairer  to  the  eye 
Than  ever,  moved  along  serene 
In  hood  "and  cloak,  —  a  gypsy  queen, 
Born  princess  of  Bohemia  ! 


A  fairy  realm  !  where  slope  and  stream, 
Champaign  and  upland,  town  and  grange, 
Like  shadowy  shiftings  of  a  dream, 
Forever  blend  and  interchange  ; 
A  magic  clime  !  where,  hour  by  hour, 
Storm,  cloud,  and  sunshine,  fleeting  by, 
Commingle,  and,  through  shine  and  shower, 
Bright  castles,  lit  with  rainbows,  tower, 
Emblazoning  the  distant  sky 

With  glimmering  glories  of  a  land 

Far  off,  yet  ever  close  at  hand 
As  hope,  in  brave  Bohemia. 

VII. 

On  either  side  the  travelled  way, 
Encamped  along  the  sunny  downs, 
The  blithesome,  bold  Bohemians  lay  ; 
Or  hid,  in  quaintly-gabled  towns, 
At  smoke-stained  inns  of  musty  date, 


EARLY  POEMS. 

And  spider-haunted  attic  nooks 
In  empty  houses  of  the  great, 
Still  smacking  of  their  ancient  state,  — 
Strewn  round  with  pipes  and  mouldy  books, 
And  robes  and  buskins  over-worn, 
That  well  become  the  careless  scorn 
And  freedom  of  Bohemia. 

VIII. 

For,  loving  Beauty,  and,  by  chance, 
Too  poor  to  make  her  all  in  all, 
They  spurn  her  half-way  maintenance, 
And  let  things  mingle  as  they  fall ; 
Dissevered  from  all  other  climes, 
Yet  compassing  the  whole  round  world, 
Where'er  are  jests,  and  jousts  at  rhymes, 
True  love,  and  careless,  jovial  times, 
Great  souls  by  jilting  Fortune  whirled, 
Men  that  were  born  before  their  day, 
Kingly,  without  a  realm  to  sway, 
Yet  monarchs  in  Bohemia  ; 


And  errant  wielders  of  the  quill ; 
And  old-world  princes,  strayed  afar, 
In  thread-bare  exile  chasing  still 
The  glimpses  of  a  natal  star  ; 
And  Woman  —  taking  refuge  there 
With  woman's  toil,  and  trust,  and  song, 
And  something  of  a  piquant  air 
Defiant,  as  who  must  and  dare 
Steer  her  own  shallop,  right  or  wrong. 
A  certain  noble  nature  schools, 
In  scorn  of  smaller,  mincing  rules, 
The  maidens  of  Bohemia. 


BOHEMIA. 
X. 

But  we  pursued  our  pilgrimage 
Far  on,  through  hazy  lengths  of  road, 
Or  crumbling  cities  gray  with  age  ; 
And  stayed  in  many  a  queer  abode, 
Days,  seasons,  years,  —  wherein  were  born 
Of  infant  pilgrims,  one,  two,  three ; 
And  ever,  though  with  travel  worn, 
Nor  garnered  for  the  morrow's  morn, 
We  seemed  a  merry  company,  — 

We,  and  the  mates  whom  friendship,  or 
What  sunshine  fell  within  our  door, 
Drew  to  us  in  Bohemia. 


For  Ambrose  —  priest  without  a  cure  — 
Christened  our  babes,  and  drank  the  wine 
He  blessed,  to  make  the  blessing  sure  ; 
And  Ralph,  the  limner  —  half-divine 
The  picture  of  my  Blanche  he  drew, 
As  Saint  Cecilia  'mong  the  caves,  — 
She  singing  ;  eyes  a  holy  blue, 
Upturned  and  rapturous  ;  hair,  in  hue, 
Gold  rippled  into  amber  waves. 

There,  too,  is  wayward,  wild  Annette, 
Danseuse  and  warbler  and  grisette, 
True  daughter  of  Bohemia, 

XII. 

But  all  by  turns  and  nothing  long  ; 
And  Rose,  whose  needle  gains  her  bread  ; 
And  bookish  Sibyl,  —  she  whose  tongue 
The  bees  of  Hybla  must  have  fed  ; 
And  one  —  a  poet  —  nowise  sage 


EARLY  POEMS. 

For  self,  but  gay  companion  boon 
And  prophet  of  the  golden  age  ; 
He  joined  us  in  our  pilgrimage 
Long  since,  one  early  Autumn  noon 
When,  faint  with  journeying,  we  sate 
Within  a  wayside  hostel-gate 
To  rest  us  in  Bohemia. 


In  rusty  garb,  but  with  an  air 
Of  grace,  that  hunger  could  not  whelm, 
He  told  his  wants,  and  —  "  Could  we  spare 
Aught  of  the  current  of  the  realm  — 
A  shilling  ?  "  —  which  I  gave  ;  and  so 
Came  talk,  and  Blanche's  kindly  smile ; 
Whereat  he  felt  his  heart  aglow, 
And  said  :  "  Lo,  here  is  silver  !  lo, 
Mine  host  hath  ale  !  and  it  were  vile, 
If  so  much  coin  were  spent  by  me 
For  bread,  when  such  good  company 
Is  gathered  in  Bohemia." 


Richer  than  Kaiser  on  his  throne, 
A  royal  stoup  he  bade  them  bring ; 
And  so,  with  many  of  mine  own, 
His  shilling  vanished  on  the  wing  \ 
And  many  a  skyward-floating  strain 
He  sang,  we  chorusing  the  lay 
Till  all  the  hostel  rang  again  ; 
But  when  the  day  began  to  wane, 
Along  the  sequel  of  our  way 

He  kept  us  pace  ;   and,  since  that  time, 
We  never  lack  for  song  and  rhyme 
To  cheer  us,  in  Bohemia. 


BOHEMIA. 


And  once  we  stopped  a  twelvemonth,  where 
Five-score  Bohemians  began 
Their  scheme  to  cheapen  bed  and  fare, 
Upon  a  late-discovered  plan  ; 
"  For  see,"  they  said,  "  the  sum  how  small 
By  which  one  pilgrim's  wants  are  met  ! 
And  if  a  host  together  fall, 
What  need  of  any  cash  at  all  ? " 
Though  how  it  worked  I  half  forget, 
Yet  still  the  same  old  dance  and  song 
We  found,  —  the  kindly,  blithesome  throng 
And  joyance  of  Bohemia. 

XVI. 

Thus  onward  through  the  Magic  Land, 
With  varying  chance.     But  once  there  past 
A  mystic  shadow  o'er  our  band, 
Deeper  than  Want  could  ever  cast, 
For,  oh,  it  darkened  little  eyes  ! 
We  saw  our  youngest  darling  die, 
Then  robed  her  in  her  palmer's  guise, 
And  crossed  the  fair  hands  pilgrim-wise, 
And,  one  by  one.  so  tenderly, 

Came  Ambrose,  Sibyl,  Ralph,  and  Rose, 
Strewing  each  sweetest  flower  that  grows 
In  wildwoods  of  Bohemia. 


But  last  the  Poet,  sorrowing,  stood 

Above  the  tiny  clay,  and  said  : 

"  Bright  little  Spirit,  pure  and  good, 

Whither  so  far  away  hast  fled  ? 

Full  soon  thou  tryest  that  other  sphere : 


I0  EARLY  POEMS. 

Whate'er  is  lacking  in  our  lives 
Thou  dost  attain  ;  for  Heaven  is  near, 
Methinks,  to  pilgrims  wandering  here, 
As  to  that  one  who  never  strives 

With  fortune,  —  has  not  come  to  know 
The  pride  and  pain  that  dwell  so  low 
In  valleys  of  Bohemia." 

xvm- 

He  ceased,  and  pointed  solemnly 
Through  western  windows  ;  and  we  saw 
That  lustrous  castle  of  the  sky 
Gleam,  touched  with  flame  ;  and  heard  with  awe, 
About  us,  gentle  whisperings 
Of  unseen  watchers  hovering  near 
Our  dead,  and  rustling  angel  wings  ! 
Now,  whether  this  or  that  year  brings 
The  valley's  end,  or,  haply,  here 

Our  pilgrimage  for  life  must  last, 

We  know  not ;  but  a  sacred  past 
Has  hallowed  all  Bohemia. 


THE    DIAMOND   WEDDING. 

S~\  LOVE  !  Love  !  Love  !  what  times  were  those, 
^-^    Long  ere  the  age  of  belles  and  beaux 

And  Brussels  lace  and  silken  hose, 

When,  in  the  green  Arcadian  close, 

You  married  Psyche,  under  the  rose, 
With  only  the  grass  for  bedding  ! 

Heart  to  heart,  and  hand  in  hand, 

You  followed  Nature's  sweet  command  — 


THE  DIAMOND    WEDDING.  \\ 

Roaming  lovingly  through  the  land, 
Nor  sighed  for  a  Diamond  Wedding. 

So  have  we  read,  in  classic  Ovid, 
How  Hero  watched  for  her  beloved, 

Impassioned  youth,  Leander. 
She  was  the  fairest  of  the  fair, 
And  wrapt  him  round  with  her  golden  hair, 
Whenever  he  landed  cold  and  bare, 
With  nothing  to  eat  and  nothing  to  wear 

And  wetter  than  any  gander  ; 
For  Love  was  Love,  and  better  than  money  ; 
The  slyer  the  theft,  the  sweeter  the  honey  ; 
And  kissing  was  clover,  all  the  world  over, 

Wherever  Cupid  might  wander. 

So  thousands  of  years  have  come  and  gone, 
And  still  the  moon  is  shining  on, 

Still  Hymen's  torch  is  lighted  ; 
And  hitherto,  in  this  land  of  the  West, 
Most  couples  in  love  have  thought  it  best 
To  follow  the  ancient  way  of  the  rest, 

And  quietly  get  united. 

But  now,  True  Love,  you  're  growing  old  — 
Bought  and  sold,  with  silver  and  gold, 
Like  a  house,  or  a  horse  and  carriage  ! 

Midnight  talks, 

Moonlight  walks, 

The  glance  of  the  eye  and  sweetheart  sigh, 
The  shadowy  haunts  with  no  one  by, 
I  do  not  wish  to  disparage  ; 

But  every  kiss 

Has  a  price  for  its  bliss, 
In  the  modern  code  of  marriage  ; 


12 


EARLY  POEMS. 


And  the  compact  sweet 
Is  not  complete, 
Till  the  high  contracting  parties  meet 

Before  the  altar  of  Mammon  ; 
And  the  bride  must  be  led  to  a  silver  bower, 
Where  pearls  and  rubies  fall  in  a  shower 
That  would  frighten  Jupiter  Ammon  ! 

I  need  not  tell 
How  it  befell, 

(Since  Jenkins  has  told  the  story 
Over  and  over  and  over  again, 
In  a  style  I  cannot  hope  to  attain, 

And  covered  himself  with  glory  !  ) 
How  it  befell,  one  Summer's  day, 
The  King  of  the  Cubans  strolled  this  way,  — 
King  January'  's  his  name,  they  say,  — 
And  fell  in  love  with  the  Princess  May, 

The  reigning  belle  of  Manhattan  ; 
Nor  how  he  began  to  smirk  and  sue, 
And  dress  as  lovers  who  come  to  woo, 
Or  as  Max  Maretzek  and  Jullien  do, 
When  they  sit,  full-bloomed,  in  the  ladies'  view, 

And  flourish  the  wondrous  baton. 


He  was  n't  one  of  your  Polish  nobles, 

Whose  presence  their  country  somehow  troubles, 

And  so  our  cities  receive  them  ; 
Nor  one  of  your  make-believe  Spanish  grandees, 
Who  ply  our  daughters  with  lies  and  candies, 

Until  the  poor  girls  believe  them. 
No,  he  was  no  such  charlatan  — 
Count  de  Hoboken  Flash-in-the-pan, 


THE  DIAMOND    WEDDING.  13 

Full  of  gasconade  and  bravado, 

But  a  regular,  rich  Don  Rataplan 

Santa  Glaus  de  la  Muscovado 

Senor  Grandissimo  Bastinado  ! 

His  was  the  rental  of  half  Havana 

And  all  Matanzas  ;  and  Santa  Anna, 

Rich  as  he  was,  could  hardly  hold 

A  candle  to  light  the  mines  of  gold 

Our  Cuban  owned,  choke-full  of  diggers  ; 

And  broad  plantations,  that,  in  round  figures, 

Were  stocked  with  at  least  five  thousand  niggers  ! 

"  Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may  ! " 

The  Senor  swore  to  carry  the  day, 

To  capture  the  beautiful  Princess  May, 

With  his  battery  of  treasure  ; 
Velvet  and  lace  she  should  not  lack ; 
Tiffany,  Haughwout,  Ball  &  Black, 
Genin  and  Stewart,  his  suit  should  back, 

And  come  and  go  at  her  pleasure  ; 
Jet  and  lava  —  silver  and  gold — 
Garnets  —  emeralds  rare  to  behold  — 
Diamonds  —  sapphires  —  wealth  untold  — 
All  were  hers,  to  have  and  to  hold  ; 

Enough  to  fill  a  peck-measure  ! 

He  did  n't  bring  all  his  forces  on 
At  once,  but  like  a  crafty  old  Don, 
Who  many  a  heart  had  fought  and  won,. 

Kept  bidding  a  little  higher  ; 
And  every  time  he  made  his  bid, 
And  what  she  said,  and  all  they  did  — 
'T  was  written  down, 
For  the  good  of  the  town, 
By  Jeems,  of  The  Daily  Flyer. 


4  EARL  Y  POEMS. 

A  coach  and  horses,  you  'd  think,  would  buy 
For  the  Don  an  easy  victory  ; 

But  slowly  our  Princess  yielded. 
A  diamond  necklace  caught  her  eye, 
But  a  wreath  of  pearls  first  made  her  sigh. 
She  knew  the  worth  of  each  maiden  glance, 
And,  like  young  colts,  that  curvet  and  prance, 
She  led  the  Don  a  deuce  of  a  dance, 

In  spite  of  the  wealth  he  wielded. 

She  stood  such  a  fire  of  silks  and  laces, 
Jewels,  and  golden  dressing-cases, 
And  ruby  brooches,  and  jets  and  pearls, 
That  every  one  of  her  dainty  curls 
Brought  the  price  of  a  hundred  common  girls  ; 

Folks  thought  the  lass  demented  ! 
But  at  last  a  wonderful  diamond  ring, 
An  infant  Koh-i-noor,  did  the  thing, 
And,  sighing  with  love,  or  something  the  same, 
(What 's  in  a  name  ?) 

The  Princess  May  consented. 

Ring  !  ring  the  bells,  and  bring 

The  people  to  see  the  marrying  ! 

Let  the  gaunt  and  hungry  and  ragged  poor 

Throng  round  the  great  Cathedral  door, 

To  wonder  what  all  the  hubbub  's  for, 

And  sometimes  stupidly  wonder 
At  so  much  sunshine  and  brightness,  which 
Fall  from  the  church  upon  the  rich, 

While  the  poor  get  all  the  thunder. 


THE  DIAMOND    WEDDING. 

Ring  !  ring,  merry  bells,  ring  ! 

O  fortunate  few 

With  letters  blue, 

Good  for  a  seat  and  a  nearer  view  ! 
Fortunate  few,  whom  I  dare  not  name  ; 
Dilettanti  !     Creme  de  la  creme  ! 
We  commoners  stood  by  the  street  facade 
And  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  cavalcade  ; 

We  saw  the  bride 

In  diamonded  pride, 
With  jewelled  maidens  to  guard  her  side,  — 

Six  lustrous  maidens  in  tarletan. 
She  led  the  van  of  the  caravan  ; 

Close  behind  her,  her  mother 
(Dressed  in  gorgeous  moire  antique, 
That  told,  as  plainly  as  words  could  speak, 
She  was  more  antique  than  the  other,) 

Leaned  on  the  arm  of  Don  Rataplan 
Santa  Claus  de  la  Muscovado 
Senor  Grandissimo  Bastinado. 

Happy  mortal !  fortunate  man  ! 
And  Marquis  of  El  Dorado  ! 

In  they  swept,  all  riches  and  grace, 
Silks  and  satins,  jewels  and  lace  ; 
In  they  swept  from  the  dazzled  sun, 
And  soon  in  the  church  the  deed  was  done. 
Three  prelates  stood  on  the  chancel  high  : 
A  knot  that  gold  and  silver  can  buy 
Gold  and  silver  may  yet  untie, 

Unless  it  is  tightly  fastened  ; 
What 's  worth  doing  at  all 's  worth  doing  well. 
And  the  sale  of  a  young  Manhattan  belle 

Is  not  to  be  pushed  or  hastened  ; 


EARLY  POEMS. 

So  two  Very- Reverends  graced  the  scene, 
And  the  tall  Archbishop  stood  between, 

By  prayer  and  fasting  chastened. 
The  Pope  himself  would  have  come  from  Rome, 
But  Garibaldi  kept  him  at  home. 
Haply  these  robed  prelates  thought 
Their  words  were  the  power  that  tied  the  knot ; 
But  another  power  that  love-knot  tied, 
And  I  saw  the  chain  round  the  neck  of  the  bride,  - 
A  glistening,  priceless,  marvellous  chain, 
Coiled  with  diamonds  again  and  again, 

As  befits  a  diamond  wedding  ; 
Yet  still 't  was  a  chain,  and  I  thought  she  knew  it, 
And  half-way  longed  for  the  will  to  undo  it, 

By  the  secret  tears  she  was  shedding. 

But  is  n't  it  odd,  to  think  whenever 

We  all  go  through  that  terrible  River,  — 

Whose  sluggish  tide  alone  can  sever 

(The  Archbishop  sa-ys)  the  Church  decree, 

By  floating  one  into  Eternity 

And  leaving  the  other  alive  as  ever,  — 

As  each  wades  through  that  ghastly  stream, 

The  satins  that  rustle  and  gems  that  gleam 

Will  grow  pale  and  heavy,  and  sink  away 

To  the  noisome  River's  bottom-clay  ; 

Then  the  costly  bride  and  her  maidens  six 

Will  shiver  upon  the  banks  of  the  Styx, 

Quite  as  helpless  as  they  were  born,  — 

Naked  souls,  and  very  forlorn  ; 

The  Princess,  then,  must  shift  for  herself, 

And  lay  her  royalty  on  the  shelf ; 

She,  and  the  beautiful  Empress,  yonder, 

Whose  robes  are  now  the  wide  world's  wonder, 


PENELOPE. 

And  even  ourselves,  and  our  dear  little  wives, 

Who  calico  wear  each  morn  of  their  lives, 

And  the  sewing  girls,  and  les  chiffoniers, 

In  rags  and  hunger,  —  a  gaunt  array,  — 

And  all  the  grooms  of  the  caravan  — 

Ay,  even  the  great  Don  Rataplan 

Santa  Claus  de  la  Muscovado 

Senor  Grandissimo  Bastinado  — 

That  gold-encrusted,  fortunate  man  !  — 

All  will  land  in  naked  equality  : 

The  lord  of  a  ribboned  principality 

Will  mourn  the  loss  of  his  cordon. 
Nothing  to  eat,  and  nothing  to  wear 
Will  certainly  be  the  fashion  there  ! 
Ten  to  one,  and  I  '11  go  it  alone, 
Those  most  used  to  a  rag  and  bone, 
Though  here  on  earth  they  labor  and  groan, 
Will  stand  it  best,  as  they  wade  abreast 

To  the  other  side  of  Jordan. 


PENELOPE, 

TVT  OT  thus,  Ulysses,  with  a  tender  word, 

*  ^    Pretence  of  state  affairs,  soft  blandishment, 

And  halt  assurances,  canst  thou  evade 

My  heart's  discernment.     Think  not  such  a  film 

Hath  touched  these  aged  eyes,  to  make  them  lose 

The  subtlest  mood  of  those  even  now.adroop, 

Self-conscious,  darkling  from  my  nearer  gaze. 

Full  well  I  know  thy  mind,  O  man  of  wiles ! 


!g  EARLY  POEMS. 

0  man  of  restless  yearnings — fate-impelled, 
Fate-conquering  —  like  a  waif  thrown  back  and  forth 
O'er  many  waters  !     Oft  I  see  thee  stand 

At  eve,  a  landmark  on  the  outer  cliff, 
Looking  far  westward  ;  later,  when  the  feast 
Smokes  in  the  hall,  and  nimble  servants  pass 
Great  bowls  of  wine,  and  ancient  Phemeus  sings 
The  deeds  of  Peleus'  son,  thy  right  hand  moves 
Straight  for  its  sword-hilt,  like  a  ship  for  home  ; 
Then,  when  thou  hearest  him  follow  in  the  song 
Thine  own  miraculous  sojourn  of  long  years 
Through  stormy  seas,  weird  islands,  and  the  land 
Of  giants,  and  the  gray  companions  smite 
Their  shields,  and  cry,  What  do  we  longer  here  ? 
Afloat !  and  let  the  great  waves  bear  us  on  / 

1  know  thou  growest  weary  of  the  realm, 
Thy  wife,  thy  son,  the  people,  and  thy  fame. 

I  too  have  had  my  longings.     Am  I  not 
Penelope,  who,  when  Ulysses  came 
To  Sparta,  and  Icarius  bade  her  choose 
Betwixt  her  sire  and  wooer,  veiled  her  face 
And  stept  upon  the  galley  silver-oared, 
And  since  hath  kept  thine  Ithacensian  halls  ? 
Then  when  the  hateful  Helen  fled  to  Troy 
"With  Paris,  and  the  Argive  chieftains  sailed 
Then  ships  to  Aulis,  I  would  have  thee  go  — 
Presaging  fame,  and  power,  and  spoils  of  war. 
So  ten  years  passed  ;  meanwhile  I  reared  thy  son 
To  know  his  father's  wisdom,  and,  apart 
Among  my  maidens,  wove  the  yellow  wool. 
But  then,  returning  one  by  one,  they  came,  — 
The  island-princes  ;  high-born  dames  of  Crete 
And  Cephalonia  saw  again  their  lords  ; 


PENELOPE.  K 

Only  Ulyssess  came  not ;  yet  the  war 

Was  over,  and  his  vessels,  like  a  troop 

Of  cranes  in  file,  had  spread  their  wings  for  home. 

More  was  unknown.     Then  many  a  winter's  night 

The  servants  piled  great  fagots,  smeared  with  tar, 

High  on  the  palace-roof;  with  mine  own  hands 

I  fired  the  heaps,  that,  haply,  far  away 

On  the  dark  waters,  might  my  lord  take  heart 

And  know  the  glory  of  his  kingly  towers. 

So  winter  passed  ;  and  summer  came  and  went, 
And  winter  and  another  summer  ;  then  — 
Alas,  how  many  weary  months  and  days  ! 
But  he  I  loved  came  not.     Meanwhile  thou  knowest 
Pelasgia's  noblest  chiefs,  with  kingly  gifts 
And  pledge  of  dower,  gathered  in  the  halls  ; 
But  still  this  heart  kept  faithful,  knowing  yet 
Thou  wouldst  return,  though  wrecked  on  alien  shores. 
And  great  Athene  often  in  my  dreams 
Shone,  uttering  words  of  cheer.     But,  last  of  all, 
The  people  rose,  swearing  a  king  should  rule, 
To  keep  their  ancient  empery  of  the  isles 
Inviolate  and  thrifty  :  bade  me  choose 
A  mate,  nor  longer  dally.     Then  I  prayed 
Respite,  until  the  web  within  my  loom, 
Of  gold  and  purple  curiously  devised 
For  old  Laertes'  shroud,  should  fall  complete 
From  hands  still  faithful  to  his  blood.     Thou  knowest 
How  like  a  ghost  I  left  my  couch  at  night, 
Unravelling  the  labor  of  the  day, 
And  warded  off  the  fate,  till  came  that  time 
When  my  lost  sea-king  thundered  in  his  halls. 
And  with  long  arrows  clove  the  suitors'  hearts. 
So  constant  was  I !  now  not  thirty  moons 


20 


EARLY  POEMS. 


Go  by,  and  thou  forgettest  all.  Alas  ! 
What  profit  is  there  any  more  in  love  ? 
What  thankless  sequel  hath  a  woman's  faith  ! 

Yet  if  thou  wilt,  —  in  these  thy  golden  years, 
Safe-housed  in  royalty,  like  a  god  revered 
By  all  the  people,  —  if  thou  yearnest  yet 
Once  more  to  dare  the  deep  and  Neptune's  hate, 
I  will  not  linger  in  a  widowed  age  ; 
I  will  not  lose  Ulysses,  hardly  found 
After  long  vigils  ;  but  will  cleave  about 
Thy  neck,  with  more  than  woman's  prayers  and  tears, 
Until  thou  take  me  with  thee.     As  I  left 
My  sire,  I  leave  my  son,  to  follow  where 
Ulysses  goeth,  dearer  for  the  strength 
Of  that  great  heart  which  ever  drives  him  on 
To  large  experience  of  newer  toils  ! 

Trust  me,  I  will  not  any  hindrance  prove, 
But,  like  Athene's  helm,  a  guiding  star, 
A  glory  and  a  comfort  !     O,  be  sure 
My  heart  shall  take  its  lesson  from  thine  own  ! 
My  voice  shall  cheer  the  mariners  at  their  oars 
In  the  night  watches  ;  it  shall  warble  songs, 
Whose  music  shall  o'erpower  the  luring  airs 
Of  Nereid  or  Siren.     If  we  find 
Those  isles  thou  namest,  where  the  golden  fount 
Gives  youth  to  all  who  taste  it,  we  will  drink 
Deep  draughts,  until  the  furrows  leave  thy  brow, 
And  I  shall  walk  in  beauty,  as  when  first 
I  saw  thee  from  afar  in  Sparta's  groves. 
But  if  Charybdis  seize  our  keel,  or  swift 
Black  currents  bear  us  down  the  noisome  wave 
That  leads  to  Hades,  till  the  vessel  sink 


HELIOTROPE. 

In  Stygian  waters,  none  the  less  our  souls 
Shall  gain  the  farther  shore,  and,  hand  in  hand, 
Walk  from  the  strand  across  Elysian  fields, 
'Mong  happy  thronging  shades,  that  point  and  say  : 
"  There  go  the  great  Ulysses,  loved  of  gods, 
And  she,  his  wife,  most  faithful  unto  death  !  " 


^  THE  SINGER. 

OLARK!  sweet  lark! 
Where  learn  you  all  your  minstrelsy  ? 
What  realms  are  those  to  which  you  fly  ? 
While  robins  feed  their  young  from  dawn  till  dark, 
You  soar  on  high,  — 
Forever  in  the  sky. 


O  child  !  dear  child  ! 
Above  the  clouds  I  lift  my  wing 
To  hear  the  bells  of  Heaven  ring  ; 
Some  of  their  music,  though  my  flights  be  wild, 

To  Earth  I  bring  ; 

Then  let  me  soar  and  sing  ! 


HELIOTROPE. 

1"  WALK  in  the  morning  twilight, 
•*-     Along  a  garden-slope, 
To  the  shield  of  moss  encircling 
My  beautiful  Heliotrope, 


21 


22  EARLY  POEMS. 

0  sweetest  of  all  the  flowerets 
That  bloom  where  angels  tread  ! 

But  never  such  marvellous  odor 
From  heliotrope  was  shed, 

As  the  passionate  exhalation, 
The  dew  of  celestial  wine, 

That  floats  in  tremulous  languor 
Around  this  darling  of  mine. 

For,  only  yester-even, 
I  saw  the  dearest  scene  ! 

1  heard  the  delicate  footfall, 

The  step  of  my  love,  my  queen. 

Along  the  walk  she  glided  : 
I  made  no  sound  nor  sign, 

But  ever,  at  the  turning 

Of  her  star-white  neck  divine, 

I  shrunk  in  the  shade  of  the  cypress, 
And  crouched  in  the  swooning  grass, 

Like  some  Arcadian  shepherd 
To  see  an  Oread  pass. 

But  when  she  came  to  the  border 
At  the  end  of  the  garden- slope, 

She  bent,  like  a  rose-tree,  over 
That  beautiful  Heliotrope. 

The  cloud  of  its  subtile  fragrance 
Entwined  her  in  its  wreath, 

And  all  the  while  commingled 
With  the  incense  of  her  breath. 


ROSEMARY.  23 

And  so  she  glistened  onward, 

Far  down  the  long  parterre, 
Beside  the  statue  of  Hesper, 

And  a  hundred  times  more  fair. 

But  ah  !  her  breath  had  added 

The  perfume  that  I  find 
In  this,  the  sweetest  of  flowerets, 

And  the  paragon  of  its  kind. 

I  drink  deep  draughts  of  its  nectar  ; 

I  faint  with  love  and  hope  ! 
Oh,  what  did  she  whisper  to  you, 

My  beautiful  Heliotrope  ? 


ROSEMARY. 

THERE'S  ROSEMARY,  THAT'S  FOR  REMEMBRANCE." 

"\7EARS  ago,  when  a  summer  sun 
-*-  Warmed  the  greenwood  into  life, 
I  went  wandering  with  one 
Soon  to  be  my  wife. 

Birds  were  mating,  and  Love  began 

All  the  copses  to  infold  ; 
Our  two  souls  together  ran 

Melting  in  one  mould. 

Skies  were  bluer  than  ever  before : 

It  was  joy  to  love  you  then, 
And  to  know  I  loved  you  more 

Than  could  other  men  ! 


24  EARL  Y  POEMS. 

Winds  were  fresh  and  your  heart  was  brave, 

Sang  to  mine  a  sweet  refrain, 
And  for  every  pledge  I  gave 

Pledged  me  back  again. 

How  it  happened  I  cannot  tell, 
But  there  came  a  cursed  hour, 

When  some  hidden  shape  of  hell 
Crept  within  our  bower. 

Sudden  and  sharply  either  spoke 
Bitter  words  of  doubt  and  scorn  ; 

Pride  the  golden  linklets  broke,  — 
Left  us  both  forlorn. 

Seven  long  years  have  gone  since  then, 

And  I  suffered,  but,  at  last, 
Rose  and  joined  my  fellow-men, 

Crushing  clown  the  past. 

Far  away  over  distant  hills, 

Now  I  know  your  life  is  led  ; 
Have  you  felt  the  rust  that  kills  ? 

Are  your  lilies  dead  ? 

Summer  and  winter  you  have  dwelt, 

Like  a  statue,  cold  and  white  ; 
None,  of  all  the  crowd  who  knelt, 

Read  your  soul  aright. 

O,  I  knew  the  tremulous  swell 

Of  its  secret  undertone  ! 
That  diviner  music  fell 

On  my  ear  alone  ! 


SUMMER  RAIN. 

Ever  in  dreams  we  meet  with  tears  : 
Lake  and  mountain  —  all  are  past : 

With  the  stifled  love  of  seven  long  years 
Hold  each  other  fast ! 

Though  the  glamoury  of  the  night 
Fades  with  morning  far  away, 

Oftentimes  a  strange  delight 
Haunts  the  after-day. 

Even  now,  when  the  summer  sun 
Warms  the  greenwood  far  within, 

Even  now  my  fancies  run 
On  what  might  have  been. 


SUMMER   RAIN. 

WESTERMORN  the  air  was  dry 
JL     As  the  winds  of  Araby, 
While  the  sun,  with  pitiless  heat, 
Glared  upon  the  glaring  street, 
And  the  meadow  fountains  sealed, 
Till  the  people  everywhere, 
And  the  cattle  in  the  field, 

And  the  birds  in  middle  air, 
And  the  thirsty  little  flowers, 

Sent  to  heaven  a  fainting  prayer 
For  the  blessed  summer  showers. 

Not  in  vain  the  prayer  was  said  ; 
For  at  sunset,  overhead, 
Sailing  from  the  gorgeous  West, 
Came  the  pioneers,  abreast, 


EARLY  POEMS. 

Of  a  wondrous  argosy,  — 
The  Armada  of  the  sky  ! 
Far  along  I  saw  them  sail, 
Wafted  by  an  upper  gale  ; 
Saw  them,  on  their  lustrous  route, 
Fling  a  thousand  banners  out : 
Yellow,  violet,  crimson,  blue,  , 

Orange,  sapphire,  —  every  hue 
That  the  gates  of  Heaven  put  on, 
To  the  sainted  eyes  of  John, 
In  that  hallowed  Patmos  isle 
Their  skyey  pennons  wore  ;  and  while 
I  drank  the  glory  of  the  sight 
Sunset  faded  into  night. 

Then  diverging,  far  and  wide, 
To  the  dim  horizon's  side, 
Silently  and  swiftly  there, 
Every  galleon  of  the  air, 
Manned  by  some  celestial  crew, 
Out  its  precious  cargo  threw, 
And  the  gentle  summer  rain 
Cooled  the  fevered  Earth  again. 

Through  the  night  I  heard  it  fall 
Tenderly  and  musical ; 
And  this  morning  not  a  sigh 

Of  wind  uplifts  the  briony  leaves, 
But  the  ashen-tinted  sky 

Still  for  earthly  turmoil  grieves, 
While  the  melody  of  the  rain, 
Dropping  on  the  window-pane, 
On  the  lilac  and  the  rose, 
Round  us  all  its  pleasance  throws, 


•I  I 

I  si 

11 


SUMMER  RAIN.  27 

Till  our  souls  are  yielded  wholly 
To  its  constant  melancholy, 
And,  like  the  burden  of  its  song, 
Passionate  moments  glide  along. 

Pinks  and  hyacinths  perfume 
All  our  garden-fronted  room  ; 
Hither,  close  beside  me,  Love  ! 
Do  not  whisper,  do  not  move. 
Here  we  two  will  softly  stay, 
Side  by  side,  the  livelong  day. 
Lean  thy  head  upon  rny  breast : 
Ever  shall  it  give  thee  rest, 
Ever  would  I  gaze  to  meet 
Eyes  of  thine  up-glancing,  Sweet ! 
What  enchanted  dreams  are  ours  ! 
While  the  murmur  of  the  showers 
Dropping  on  the  tranquil  ground, 
Dropping  on  the  leaves  and  flowers, 
Wraps  our  yearning  souls  around 
In  the  drapery  of  its  sound. 

Still  the  plenteous  streamlets  fall : 
Here  two  hearts  are  all  in  all 
To  each  other  ;  and  they  beat 
With  no  evanescent  heat, 
But  softly,  steadily,  hour  by  hour, 
With  the  calm,  melodious  power 
Of  the  gentle  summer  rain, 
That  in  Heaven  so  long  hath  lain, 
And  from  out  that  shoreless  sea 
Pours  its  blessings  tenderly. 

Freer  yet  its  currents  swell  ! 
Here  are  streams  that  flow  as  well, 


28  EARL  Y  POEMS. 

Rivulets  of  the  constant  heart ; 

But  a  little  space  apart 

Glide  they  now,  and  soon  shall  run, 

Love-united,  into  one. 

It  shall  chance,  in  future  days, 

That  again  the  lurid  rays 

Of  that  hidden  sun  shall  shine 

On  the  floweret  and  the  vine, 

And  again  the  meadow-springs 

Fly  away  on  misty  wings  : 

But  no  glare  of  Fate  adverse 

Shall  on  us  achieve  its  curse, 

Never  any  baneful  gleam 

Waste  our  clear,  perennial  stream  ; 

For  its  fountains  lie  below 

That  malign  and  ominous  glow,  — 

Lie  in  shadowy  grottoes  cool, 

Where  all  kindly  spirits  rule  ; 

Calmly  ever  shall  it  flow 

Toward  the  waters  of  the  sea,  — 

That  serene  Eternity  ! 


.       TOO   LATE. 

CROUCH  no  more  by  the  ivied  walls, 
Weep  no  longer  over  her  grave, 
Strew  no  flowers  when  evening  falls  : 
Idly  you  lost  what  angels  gave  ! 

Sunbeams  cover  that  silent  mound 
With  a  warmer  hue  than  your  roses'  red  ; 
To-morrow's  rain  will  bedew  the  ground 
With  a  purer  stream  than  the  tears  you  shed. 


VOICE   OF   THE    WESTERN  WIND.         29 

But  neither  the  sweets  of  the  scattered  flowers, 
Nor  the  morning  sunlight's  soft  command, 
Nor  all  the  songs  of  the  summer  showers, 
Can  charm  her  back  from  that  distant  land. 

Tenderest  vows  are  ever  too  late  ! 
She,  who  has  gone,  can  only  know 
The  cruel  sorrow  that  was  her  fate, 
And  the  words  that  were  a  mortal  woe. 

Earth  to  earth,  and  a  vain  despair ; 
For  the  gentle  spirit  has  flown  away, 
And  you  can  never  her  wrongs  repair, 
Till  ye  meet  again  at  the  Judgment  Day. 


VOICE   OF   THE   WESTERN   WIND. 

T  ^0 ICE  of  the  western  wind  ! 

*     Thou  singest  from  afar, 
Rich  with  the  music  of  a  land 

Where  all  my  memories  are ; 
But  in  thy  song  I  only  hear 

The  echo  of  a  tone 
That  fell  divinely  on  my  ear 

In  days  forever  flown. 

Star  of  the  western  sky  ! 

Thou  beamest  from  afar, 
With  lustre  caught  from  eyes  I  knew, 

Whose  orbs  were  each  a  star ; 
But,  oh,  those  orbs  —  too  wildly  bright  — 

No  more  eclipse  thine  own, 
And  never  shall  I  find  the  light 

Of  days  forever  flown  ! 


30  EARLY  POEMS. 


FLOOD-TIDE. 

JUST  at  sunrise,  when  the  land-breeze  cooled   the 
fevered  air  once  more, 
From  a  restless  couch  I  wandered  to  the  sounding 

ocean  shore  ; 
Strolling  down  through  furrowed  sand-hills,  while  the 

splendor  of  the  day 
Flashed  across  the  trembling  waters  to  the  West  and 

far  away. 
There  I  saw,  in  distant  moorings,  many  an  anchored 

vessel  tall ; 
Heard  with  cheery  morning  voices  sailor  unto  sailor 

call. 
Crowned  with  trailing  plumes  of  sable,  right  afront  my 

standing-place 
Moved  a  swarthy  ocean-steamer  in  her  storm-resisting 

grace. 
Prophet-like,  she  clove  the  waters  toward  the  ancient 

mother-land, 
And   I  heard  her  clamorous  engine  "and  the  echo  of 

command, 
While  the  long  Atlantic  billows  to  my  feet  came  rolling 

on, 
With  the  multitudinous  music  of  a  thousand  ages  gone. 

There  I  stood,  with  careless  ankles  half  in  sand  and 

half  in  spray, 
Till  the  baleful  mist  of  midnight  from  my  being  passed 

away  ; 
Then,  with  eager  inhalations  opening  all  my  mantle 

wide, 


FLOOD-TIDE.  3! 

Felt  my  spirit  rise  exultant  with  the  rising  of  the  tide ; 
Felt  the  joyous  morning  breezes  run  afresh  through 

every  vein, 
Till  the  natural  pulse  of  manhood  beat  the  call-to-arms 

again. 
Then  came  utterance  self-condemning,  —  oh,  how  wild 

with  sudden  scorn 

Of  the  chain  that  held  me  circling  in  a  little  round  for- 
lorn ! 
Of  the  sloth  which,  like  a  vapor,  hugs  the  dull,  insensate 

heart, 
That  can  act  in  meek  submission  to  the  lowness  of  its 

part,  —  » 

In  the  broad  terrestrial  drama  play  the  herald  or  the 

clown, 
While  the  warrior  wins  his  garlands  and  the  monarch 

wears  his  crown  ! 

"  Shame  "  I  said,  "  upon  the  craven  who  can  rest,  con- 
tent to  save 

Paltry  handfuls  of  the  riches  that  his  guardian-angel 
gave! 

Shame  upon  all  listless  dreamers  early  hiding  from  the 
strife, 

Sated  with  some  little  gleaning  of  the  harvest-fields  of 
life! 

Shame  upon  God's  toiling  thinkers,  who  make  profit  of 
their  brains, 

Getting  store  of  scornful  pittance  for  their  slow-decay- 
ing pains  ! 

Give  me  purpose,  steadfast  purpose,  and  the  grandeur 
of  a  soul 

Born  to  lead  the  van  of  armies  or  a  people  to  control 

Let  me  float  away  and  ever,  from  this  shore  of  bog  and 
mire, 


32  EARLY  POEMS. 

On  the  mounting  waves  of  effort,  buoyed  by  the  soul's 
desire  ! 

Would  that  it  were  mine  to  govern  yon  large  wonder 
of  our  time : 

Such  a  life  were  worth  the  living  !  thus  to  sail  through 
every  clime, 

From  a  hundred  spicy  shorelands  bearing  treasures 
manifold  ; 

Foremost  to  achieve  discovery  of  the  peerless  lands  of 
gold; 

Or  to  thrid  the  crashing  hummocks  for  the  silent  North- 
ern Pole, 

And  these  solemn  open  waters  that  beyond  the  ice- 
plains  roll,  — 

Cold  and  shining  sea  of  ages  !  like  a  silver  fillet  set 

On  the  Earth's  eternal  forehead,  for  her  bridal  coronet. 

Or  to  close  with  some  tall  frigate,  for  my  country  and 
the  right, 

Gunwale  grinding  into  gunwale  through  the  rolling 
cloud  of  fight. 

When  the  din  of  cannonading  and  the  jarring  war 
should  cease, 

From  the  lion's  mouth  of  battle  there  should  flow  the 
sweets  of  peace. 

I  should  count  repose  in  cities  from  my  seventy  years 
a  loss,  — 

Resting  only  on  the  waters,  like  the  dusk-winged  alba- 
tross. 

I  should  lay  the  wire-wrought  cable  —  a  ghostly  depth 
below  — 

Along  the  marly  summit  of  the  plummet-found  plateau  ; 

To  the  old  Antipodes  with  the  olive  branch  should 
roam, 

Joining  swart  Mongolian  races  to  the  ranks  of  Chris- 
tendom. 


FLOOD-TIDE. 


33 


Oftentimes  our  stately  presence  in  a  tyrant's  port  should 

save 
Captives,  rash  in  freedom-loving,  from  the  dungeon  and 

the  grave ; 
And  a  hymn  should  greet  our  coming,  far  across  the 

orient  sea, 
Like  the  glad  apostles'  anthem,  when  an  angel  set  them 

free. 

Such  the  nobler  life  heroic  !  life  which  ancient  Homer 

sung 
Of  the  sinewy  Grecian  worthies,  when  the  blithesome 

Earth  was  young, 
And  a  hundred  marvellous  legends  lay  about  the  misty 

land 
Where  the  wanton  Sirens  carolled  and  the  cliffs  of 

Scylla  stand. 
How  their  lusty  strokes  made  answer,  when  Ulysses 

held  the  helm, 
And  with  subtle  words  of  wisdom  spake  of  many  a 

wondrous  realm ! 
Neither  Circe,  nor  the  languor  of  enchanted  nights 

and  days 
Soothed  their  eager-eyed  disquiet,  —  tamed  theirventu- 

rous,  epic  ways ; 
And  the  dread  Sicilian  monster,  in  his  cavern  by  the 

shore, 
Felt  the  shadow  of  their  coming,  and  was  blind  for 

evermore. 

So  lived  all  those  stalwart  captains  of  the  loyal  Saxon 

blood, 
Grasping  morsels  of  adventure  as  an  eagle  grasps  his 

food  ; 

2*  C 


34 


EARLY  POEMS. 


Fought  till  death  for  queen  and  country,  hating  Anti- 
christ and  Spain  ; 

Sacked  the  rich  Castilian  cities  of  the  glittering  western 
main  ; 

Hacked  and  hewed  the  molten  idols  of  each  gray 
cathedral  pile, 

And  with  Carthaginian  silver  dowered  the  virgin  Eng- 
lish isle. 

Up  and  down  the  proud  Antilles  still  the  ringing  echoes 
go: 

Ho !  a  Raleigh  !  Ho  !  a  Drake  /  —  and,  forever, 
WESTWARD  Ho ! 

Why  should  not  my  later  paean  catch  the  swell  of  that 
refrain, 

And,  with  bursts  of  fresh  endeavor,  send  it  down  the 
age  again  ? 

But  I  know,  that,  while  the  mariner  wafts  along  the 
golden  year, 

Broader  continents  of  action  open  up  in  every  sphere. 

And  I  deem  those  noble  also,  who,  with  strong  persua- 
sive art, 

Strike  the  chords  of  aspiration  in  a  people's  lyric 
heart. 

If  in  mine  —  of  all  republics  the  Atlantis  and  supreme  — 

There  be  little  cause  for  mouthing  on  the  old,  undying 
theme  — 

Yet  I  falter  while  I  say  it :  —  ours  of  every  crime  the 
worst ! 

For  the  long  revenge  of  Heaven  crying  loud  and  call- 
ing first : 

But  if  fiery  Carolina  and  all  the  sensual  South, 

Like  the  world  before  the  deluge,  laugh  to  scorn  the 
warning  mouth,  — 


FLOOD  ^ 


35 


In  the  lap  of  hoary  Europe  lie  her  children  ill  at  rest, 
Reaching  hands  of  supplication  to  their  brethren  of 

the  West ; 

Pale  about  the  lifeless  fountain  of  their  ancient  free- 
dom, wait 
Till  the  angel  move  its  waters  and  avenge  their  stricken 

state. 
Let  me  then,  a  new  crusader,  to  the  eastward  set  my 

face, 

Wake  the  fires  of  old  tradition  on  each  sacred  altar- 
place, 
Till  a  trodden  people  rouse  them,  with  a  clamor  as 

divine 
As  the  winds  of  autumn  roaring  through  the  clumps  of 

forest-pine. 
I  myself  would  seize  their  banner ;  they  should  follow 

where  it  led, 

To  the  triumph  of  the  victors  or  the  pallor  of  the  dead. 
It  were  better  than  to  conquer  —  from  the  light  of  life 

to  go 
With  such  words  as  once  were  uttered,  off  the  isle  of 

Floreo : 
Here  die  /,  Sir  Richard  Grenvile,  of  a  free  and  joyful 

mood  : 
Ending  earth  for  God  and  honor,  as  a  valiant  soldier 

should! 
But  my  present  life  —  what  is  it  ?  mated,  housed,  like 

other  men ; 
Thoughtful  of  the  cost  of  feeding,  valiant  only  with  the 

pen; 
Lying,  walled  about  with  custom,  on  an  iron  bed  of 

creeds ; 
Peering  out  through  grated  windows  at  the  joy  my 

spirit  needs. 


36  EARL  Y  POEMS. 

And  I  hear  the  sound  of  chanting,  —  mailed  men  are 

passing  by ; 
Crumble,  walls,  and  loosen,  fetters  !  I  will  join  them, 

ere  I  die  ! " 


So  the  sleeping  thoughts  of  boyhood  oped  their  eyes 

and  newly  stirred, 
And  my  muscles  cried  for  usage,   till  the  man  their 

plainings  heard  : 
While  the  star  that  lit  me  ever  in  the  dark  and  thorny 

ways, 
Mine  by  natal  consecration,  by  the    choice   of  after 

days,— 
Seen  through  all  the  sorrow  thickening  round  the  hopes 

of  younger  years,  — 
Rayless  grew,  and  left  me  groping  in  the  valley  of  my 

tears. 

Seaward  now  the  steamer  hovered ;  seaward  far  her 
pennons  trailed, 

Where  the  blueness  of  the  heavens  at  the  clear  horizon 
paled  ; 

Where  the  mingled  sky  and  water  faded  into  fairy- 
land, 

Smaller  than  her  tiny  model,  deftly  launched  from 
childhood's  hand. 

With  a  statelier  swell  and  longer,  up  the  glacis  of  the 
shore, 

Came  the  waves  that  leapt  so  freshly  in  their  youth,  an 
hour  before. 

So  I  made  an  end  and,  turning,  reached  a  scallop- 
crested  rock, 


FLOOD-TIDE. 


37 


In  the  stormy  spring-tides  hurling  back  the  tumult  of 
their  shock. 

There  reclining,  gazed  a  moment  at  the  pebbles  by  my 
feet, 

Left  behind  the  billowy  armies  on  their  oceanward 
retreat ; 

Thousands  lying  close  together,  where  the  hosts  a  pas- 
sage wore, 

Many-hued,  and  tesselated  in  a  quaint  mosaic  floor. 

Thinking  then  upon  their  fitness,  —  each  adjusted  to 
its  place, 

Fairly  strewn,  and  smoothed  by  Nature  with  her  own 
exceeding  grace,  — 

All  at  once  some  unseen  warder  drew  the  curtains  wide 
apart, 

That  awhile  had  cast  their  shadow  on  the  picture  of  my 
heart ; 

Told  me  —  "  Thou  thyself  hast  said  it ;  in  thy  calling 
be  of  cheer : 

Broader  continents  of  action  open  up  in  every  sphere  ! 

Hold  thy  lot  as  great  as  any :  each  shall  magnify  his 
own, 

Each  shall  find  his  time  to  enter,  though  unheralded 
and  lone, 

On  the  inner  life's  arena — there  to  sound  his  battle- 
cry, 

Self  with  self  in  secret  tourney,  underneath  the  silent 
sky. 

Strong  of  faith  in  that  mute  umpire,  some  have  con- 
quered, and  withstood 

All  the  pangs  of  long  endurance,,  the  dear  pains  of 
fortitude ; 

Felt  a  harsh  misapprehension  gall  the  wounds  of  mar- 
tyrdom ; 


38  EARLY  POEMS. 

In  the  present  rancor  measured  even  the  scorn  of  days 

to  come  ; 
Known  that  never  should  the  whiteness  of  their  virtue 

shine  revealed, 
Never  should  the  truer  Future  rub  the  tarnish  from  the 

shield. 
That  diviner  abnegation  hath  not  yet  been  asked  of 

thee: 

Art  thou  able  to  attain  it,  if  perchance  it  were  to  be  ? 
O,  our  feeble  tests  of  greatness  !    Look  for  one  so  calm 

of  soul 
As  to  take  the  even  chalice  of  his  life  and  drink  the 

whole. 
Noble  deeds  are  held  in  honor,  but  the  wide  world  sorely 

needs 
Hearts  of  patience  to  unravel  this,  —  the  worth  of  com- 

mon deeds." 

As  the  darkened  earth  forever  to  the  morning  turns 

again  ; 
As  the  dreaming  soldier,   after  all  the  perilous  cam- 

paign, ' 
Struggling  long  with  horse  and  rider,  in  his  sleep  smites 

fiercely  out, 
And,  with  sudden  pang  awaking,  through  the  darkness 

peers  about,  — 
Hearing   but   the  crickets   chirrup   loud,  beneath   his 

chimney-stone, 
Feeling  but   the  warm  heart   throbbing,  in  the  form 

beside  his  own,  — 
Then  to  knowledge  of  his  hamlet,  dearer  for  the  toil  he 

knows, 
Comes  at  last,  content  to  nestle  in  the  sweets  of  his 


FLOOD-TIDE. 


39 


So  ^fell  I,  from  those  high  fancies,  to  the  quiet  of  a 

heart 
Knowing  well  how  Duty  maketh  each  one's  share  the 

better  part. 
As  again  I  looked  about  me  —  North  and  South,  and 

East  and  West  — 
Now  of  all  the  wide  world  over  still  my  haven  seemed 

the  best. 

Calm,  and  slowly  lifting  upward,  rose  the  eastern  glory 
higher, 

Gilding  sea,  and  shore,  and  vessel,  and  the  city-crown- 
ing spire. 

Then  the  sailors  shook  their  canvas  to  the  dryness  of 
the  sun, 

And  along  the  harbor-channel  glided  schooners,  one  by 
one. 

At  the  last  I  sought  my  cottage ;  there,  before  the  gar- 
den gate, 

By  the  lilac,  stood  my  darling,  looking  for  her  truant 
mate. 

Stooping  at  the  porch,  we  entered  ;  —  where  the  morn- 
ing meal  was  laid, 

Turning    over    holy    pages,    one   as    pure    and   holy 
played,  — 

Little  Paul,  who  links  more  firmly  our  two  hearts  than 
clasp  of  gold  ; 

And  I  caught  a  blessed  sentence,  while  I  took  him  to 
my  hold : 

"  Peace,"  it  said,  "  O  restless  spirit,  eager  as  the  climbing 
wave  ! 

With  my  peace  there  flows  a  largesse  such  as  monarchs 

never  gave." 
1857. 


EARLY  POEMS. 


APOLLO. 

VAINLY,  O  burning  Poets  ! 
Ye  wait  for  his  inspiration, 
Even  as  kings  of  old 
Stood  by  the  oracle-gates. 
Hasten  back,  he  will  say,  hasten  back 
To  your  provinces  far  away  ! 
There,  at  my  own  good  time, 
Will  I  send  my  answer  to  you. 

Are  ye  not  kings  of  song  ? 
At  last  the  god  cometh  ! 
The  air  runs  over  with  splendor  ; 
The  fire  leaps  high  on  the  altar ; 
Melodious  thunders  shake  the  ground. 
Hark  to  the  Delphic  responses  ! 
Hark  !  it  is  the  god  ! 


THE  ORDEAL  BY  FIRE. 

TO  many  a  one  there  comes  a  day 
So  black  with  maledictions,  they 
Hide  every  earthly  hope  away. 

In  earlier  woes  the  sufferer  bore, 
Consolement  entered  at  his  door, 
And  raised  him  gently  from  the  floor. 

To  this  great  anguish,  newly  come, 
All  former  sorrows,  in  their  sum, 
Were  but  a  faint  exordium. 


THE   ORDEAL   BY  FIRE. 

His  days  and  nights  are  full  of  groans  ; 
Sorely,  and  with  a  thousand  moans, 
For  many  wanderings  he  atones. 

Old  errors,  vanquished  for  a  space, 
Rise  up  to  smite  him  in  the  face 
And  threaten  him  with  new  disgrace. 

And  others,  shadows  of  the  first, 
From  slanderous  charnel-houses  burst, 
Pursuing,  cry,  Thou  art  accurst ! 

Dear,  feeble  voices  ask  for  bread  ; 

The  dross,  for  which  he  bowed  his  head 

So  long,  has  taken  wings  and  fled. 

The  strong  resources  of  his  health 
Have  softly  slipt  away  by  stealth  : 
No  future  toil  may  bring  him  wealth. 

Dreading  the  shadow  of  his  shame, 

False  friends,  who  with  the  sunshine  came, 

Forego  the  mention  of  his  name. 

Thus  on  a  fiery  altar  tost, 
The  harvests  of  his  life  are  lost 
In  one  consuming  holocaust. 

What  can  he,  but  to  beat  the  air, 
And,  from  the  depth  of  his  despair, 
Cry  "Is  there  respite  anywhere  ? 

"  Is  Life  but  Death  ?     Is  God  unjust 
Shall  all  the  castle  of  my  trust 
Dissolve,  and  crumble  into  dust  ? " 


EARLY  POEMS. 

There  are,  who,  with  a  wild  desire 
For  slumber,  blinded  by  the  fire, 
Sink  in  its  ashes  and  expire. 

God  pity  them  !  too  harsh  a  test 
Has  made  them  falter ;  sore  distrest, 
They  barter  everything  for  rest. 

But  many,  of  a  sterner  mould, 
Themselves  within  themselves  infold, 
Even  make  Death  unloose  his  hold, 

Athough  it  were  a  grateful  thing 
To  drain  the  cup  his  heralds  bring, 
And  yield  them  to  his  ransoming  ; 

To  quaff  the  calm,  Lethean  wave,  — 
In  passionless  tenure  of  the  grave 
Forgetting  all  they  could  not  save. 

What  angels  hold  them  up,  among 
The  ruins  of  their  lives,  so  long  ? 
What  visions  make  their  spirits  strong? 

In  sackcloth,  at  the  outer  gate, 
They  chant  the  burden  of  their  fate, 
Yet  are  not  wholly  desolate. 

A  blessed  ray  from  darkness  won 
It  may  be,  even,  to  know  the  sun 
Hath  distant  lands  he  shines  upon ; 

It  may  be  that  they  deem  it  vile 
For  one  to  mount  his  funeral  pile, 
Because  the  heavens  cease  to  smile  : 


THE   ORDEAL  BY  FIRE.  43 

That  scorn  of  cowardice  holds  fast, 
Lighting  the  forehead  to  the  last, 
Though  all  of  bravery's  hopes  are  past. 

Perchance  the  sequence  of  an  art 
Leads  to  a  refuge  for  the  heart,  — 
A  sanctuary  far  apart. 

It  may  be  that,  in  dearest  eyes, 
They  see  the  light  of  azure  skies, 
And  keep  their  faith  in  Paradise. 

Thou,  who  dost  feel  Life's  vessel  strand 
Full-length  upon  the  shifting  sand, 
And  hearest  breakers  close  at  hand, 

Be  strong  and  wait  !  nor  let  the  strife, 
With  which  the  winds  and  waves  are  rife, 
Disturb  that  sacred  inner  life. 

Anon  thou  shalt  regain  the  shore, 

And  walk  —  though  naked,  maimed,  and  sore  — 

A  nobler  being  than  before  ! 

No  lesser  griefs  shall  work  thee  ill ; 
No  malice  shall  have  power  to  kill : 
Of  woe  thy  soul  has  drunk  its  fill. 

Tempests,  that  beat  us  to  the  clay, 
Drive  many  a  lowering  cloud  away, 
And  bring  a  clearer,  holier  day. 

The  fire,  that  every  hope  consumes, 
Either  the  inmost  soul  entombs 
Or  evermore  the  face  illumes  ! 


44  E^RL  Y  POEMS. 

Robes  of  asbestos  do  we  wear ; 

Before  the  memories  we  bear, 

The  flames  leap  backward  everywhere. 


THE   PROTEST   OF   FAITH. 


DEAR  Friend  and  Teacher,  —  not  by  word  alone, 
But  by  the  plenteous  virtues  shining  out 
Along  the  zodiac  of  a  good  man's  life  ; 
Dear  gentle  friend  !  from  one  so  loved  as  you,  — 
Because  so  loving,  and  so  finely  apt 
In  tender  ministry  to  a  little  flock, 
With  whom  you  joy  and  suffer  .  .  .  and,  withal, 
So  constant  to  the  spirit  of  our  time 
That  I  must  hold  you  of  a  different  sort 
From  those  dry  lichens  on  the  altar  steps, 
Those  mutes  in  surplices,  school-trained  to  sink 
The  ashes  of  their  own  experience 
So  low,  in  doctrinal  catacombs,  that  none 
Find  token  they  can  love  and  mourn  like  us,  — 
From  such  an  one  as  you,  I  cannot  brook 
What  from  these  mummies  were  a  pleasant  draught 
Of  bitter  hyssop  —  pleasant  unto  me, 
Drunk  from  a  chalice  worthier  men  have  held 
And  emptied  to  the  lees. 

I  cannot  brook 

The  shake  o'  the  head  and  earnest,  sorrowing  glance, 
Which  often  seem  to  say  :  —  "Be  wise  in  time  ! 
Give  up  the  iron  key  that  locks  your  heart. 


THE  PROTEST  OF  FAITH. 


45 


1  grant  you  charity,  and  patient  zeal, 

And  something  of  a  young,  romantic  love 

For  what  is  good,  as  children  love  the  fields 

And  birds  and  babbling  brooks,  they  know  not  why. 

You  have  your  moral  virtues,  but  you  err  : 

To  err  is  fatal.     O,  my  heart  is  faint 

Lest  that  sweet  prize  I  win  should  not  be  yours  !  " 

In  some  such  wise  I  read  your  half-dropped  thoughts ; 
Yet  wondrous  compensation  falls  to  all, 
And  every  soul  has  strongholds  of  its  own, 
Invisible,  yet  answering  to  its  needs. 
And  even  I  may  have  a  secret  tower 
Up  storm-cleft  Pisgah,  whence  I  see  beyond 
Jordan,  and  far  across  the  happy  plains, 
Where  gleams  the  Holy  City,  like  a  queen, 
The  crown  of  all  our  hopes  and  perfect  faith. 
I  may  have  gone  somewhat  within  the  veil, 
Though  few  repose  serenely  in  the  light 
Of  that  divinest  splendor,  till  they  shine, 
With  countenance  aglow,  like  him  of  old,  — 
Prophet  and  priest  and  warrior,  all  in  one. 
But  every  human  path  leads  on  to  God  ; 
He  holds  a  myriad  finer  threads  than  gold, 
And  strong  as  holy  wishes,  drawing  us 
With  delicate  tension  upward  to  Himself. 
You  see  the  strand  that  reaches  down  to  you  ; 
Haply  I  see  mine  own,  and  make  essay 
To  trace  its  glimmerings  —  up  the  shadowy  hills 
Forever  narrowing  to  that  unknown  sky. 

There  grows  a  hedge  about  you  pulpit-folk  : 
You  reason  ex  cathedra.    Little  gain 
Have  we  to  clash  in  tourney  on  the  least 


4g  EARLY  POEMS. 

Of  points,  wherewith  you  trammel  down  the  Faith, 

It  being,  at  outset,  understood  right  well 

By  lay  knights-errant,  that  their  Reverend  foes, 

Fore-pledged  to  hold  their  own,  will  sound  their  trumps, 

Though  spearless  and  unhorsed  !     Why  take  the  field, 

When,  at  the  best,  both  side<Tgo  bowing  off 

With  mutual  courtesy,  and  fair  white  flags 

Afloat  at  camp,  and  every  fight  is  drawn  ? 

As  soon  encounter  statues,  balanced  well 

Upon  their  granite,  fashioned  not  to  move, 

And  drawing  all  mankind  to  hold  in  awe 

Their  grim  persistence. 

If,  indeed,  I  sin 

In  counting  somewhat  freely  on  that  Love 
From  which,  through  rolling  ages,  worlds  have  sprung, 
And  —  last  and  best  of  all  —  the  lords  of  worlds, 
Through  type  on  type  uplifted  from  the  clay ; 
If  I  have  been  exultant  in  the  thought 
That  such  humanity  came  so  near  to  God, 
He  held  us  as  His  children,  and  would  find 
Imperial  progress  through  the  halls  of  Time 
For  every  soul,  —  why,  then,  my  crescent  faith 
Clings  round  the  promise  ;  if  it  spread  beyond, 
You  think,  too  far,  I  say  that  Peter  sprang 
Upon  the  waves  of  surging  Galilee, 
While  all  the  eleven  hugged  the  ship  in  fear : 
The  waters  were  as  stone  unto  his  feet 
Until  he  doubted,  even  then  the  Christ 
Put  forth  a  blessed  hand,  and  drew  him  on 
To  closer  knowledge ! 

So,  if  it  be  mine 
First  of  us  twain  to  pass  the  sable  gates, 


THE  PROTEST  OF  FAITH. 


47 


That  guard  so  well  their  mysteries,  and  them, 

With  some  dear  friend,  may'st  stand  beside  my  grave 

Speak  no  such  words  as  these  :  —  "  Not  long  ago 

His  voice  rang  out  as  cheerly  as  mine  own  ; 

And  we  were  friends,  and,  far  into  the  nights, 

Would  analyze  the  wisdom  of  old  days 

By  all  the  tests  of  Science  in  her  prime  ; 

Anon  would  tramp  afield,  to  fruits  and  flowers- 

And  the  long  prototypes  of  trees  and  beasts 

Graven  in  sandstone  ;  so,  at  last,  would  come. 

Through  lanes  of  talk,  to  that  perennial  tree,  — 

The  Tree  of  Life,  on  which  redemption  hangs. 

But  there  fell  out  of  tune  ;  we  parted  there, 

He  bolstering  up  a  creed  too  broad  for  me 5 

I  held  him  kindly  for  an  ardent  soul, 

Who  lacked  not  skill  to  make  his  argument 

Seem  fair  and  specious.     But  he  groped  in  doubt: 

His  head  and  heart  were  young ;  he  wandered  off, 

And  fell  afoul  of  all  those  theorists 

Who  soften  down  our  dear  New  England  faith 

With  German  talk  of '  Nature,'  'inner  lights 

And  harmonies ' :  so,  taken  with  the  wind 

Of  those  high-sounding  terms,  he  spoke  at  large, 

And  held  discussion  bravely  till  he  died. 

Here  sleep  his  ashes  ;  where  his  soul  may  be, 

Myself,  who  loved  him,  do  not  care  to  think." 

The  ecstasy  of  Faith  has  no  such  fears 
As  those  you  nurse  for  me  !     The  marvellous  love, 
Which  folds  the  systems  in  a  flood  of  light, 
Makes  no  crude  works  to  shatter  out  of  joint 
Through  all  the  future.     O,  believe,  with  me, 
For  every  instinct  in  these  hearts  of  ours 
A  full  fruition  hastens  !     O,  believe 


48  EARLY  POEMS. 

That  promise  .greater  than  our  greatest  trust 

And  loftiest  aspiration  !     Tell  thy  friend, 

Beside  my  grave  :  "  He  did  the  best  he  could, 

With  earnest  spirit  polishing  the  lens 

By  which  he  took  the  heavens  in  his  ken, 

And  through  the  empyrean  sought  for  God  ; 

He  caught,  or  thought  he  caught,  from  time  to  time, 

Bright  glimpses  of  the  Infinite,  on  which 

He  fed  in  rapturous  and  quiet  joy, 

That  helped  him  keep  a  host  of  troubles  down. 

He  went  his  way,  —  a  different  path  from  mine, 

But  took  his  place  among  the  ranks  of  men 

Who  toil  and  suffer.     If,  in  sooth,  it  be 

Religion  keeps  us  up,  this  man  had  that. 

God  grant  his  yearnings  were  a  living  faith  ! 

Heaven  lies  above  us  :  may  we  find  him  there 

Beside  the  waters  still,  and  crowned  with  palms  !  " 


THE    FRESHET. 

A  CONNECTICUT  IDYL. 

T    AST  August,  of  a  three  weeks'  country  tour, 
•*— «    Five  dreamy  days  were  passed  amid  old  elms 
And  older  mansions,  and  in  leafy  dales, 
That  knew  us  till  our  elders  pushed  us  forth 
To  larger  life,  —  as  eagles  push  their  young, 
New-fledged  and  wondering,  from  the  eyrie's  edge, 
To  cater  for  themselves. 

I  fell  in,  there, 

With  Gilbert  Ripley,  once  my  chum  at  Yale. 
Poor  Gilbert  groaned  along  a  double  year,  — 


THE  FRESHET. 


49 


Read,  spoke,  boxed,  fenced,  rowed,  trod  the  foot-ball 

ground,  — 

Loving  the  college  library  more  than  Greek, 
His  meerschaum  most  of  all.     But  when  we  came 
Together,  gathered  from  the  breathing-time 
They  give  the  fellows  while  the  dog-days  lust, 
He  found  the  harness  chafe  ;  then  grew  morose, 
And  kicked  above  the  traces,  going  home 
Hardly  a  Junior,  but  a  sounder  man, 
In  mind  and  body,  than  a  host  who  win 
Your  baccalaureate  honors.     There  he  stayed, 
Half  tired  of  bookmen,  on  his  father's  farm, 
And  gladly  felt  the  plough-helve.     In  a  year 
The  old  man  gave  his  blessing  to  the  son, 
And  left  his  life,  as  't  were  his  harvest-field, 
When  work  was  over.     Gilbert  hugged  the  farm, 
Now  made  his  own,  besides  a  pretty  sum 
In  good  State  Sixes  ;  partly  worked  the  land, 
With  separate  theories  for  every  field, 
And  partly  led  the  student-life  of  old, 
Mouthing  his  Shakespeare's  ballads  to  himself 
Among  the  meadow-mows  ;  or,  when  he  read 
In  the  evening,  found  a  picture  of  his  bull, 
Just  brought  from  Devon,  sleek  as  silk,  loom  in 
Before  his  vision.     Thus  he  weighed  his  tastes, 
Each  against  each,  in  happiest  equipoise. 
The  neighbor  farmers  seeing  he  had  thrift 
That  would  not  run  to  waste,  and  pardoning  all 
Beyond  their  understanding,  wished  him  well. 

But  when  I  saw  him  stride  among  his  stock,  — 
Straight-shouldered  cattle,  breathing  of  the  field,  — 
Saw  him  how  blowze  and  hearty  ;  then,  at  eve, 
Close  sitting  by  his  mother  in  the  porch, 


50  EARLY  POEMS. 

Heard  him  discuss  the  methods  of  the  times, 
The  need  our  country  has  of  stalwart  men, 
Who  scorn  the  counter  and  will  till  the  land, 
Strong-handed,  free  of  thought,  —  I  somehow  felt 
The  man  was  noble,  and  his  simple  life 
More  like  the  pattern  given  in  the  Mount 
Than  mine,  hedged  close  about  with  city  life 
And  grim;  conventional  manners. 

So  much,  then, 

For  Gilbert  Ripley.     Not  to  dwell  too  long 
Upon  his  doings,  let  me  tell  the  tale 
I  got  from  him,  one  hazy  afternoon, 
When  he  and  I  had  wandered  to  the  bridge, 
New-built  across  our  favorite  of  the  streams 
That  skirt  the  village,  — here  three  miles  apart, 
Twin  currents,  joining  in  a  third  below. 

There  memory's  shallop  bore  us  dreamily, 
Through  changeful  windings,  to  the  long,  long  days 
Of  June  vacations.     How  we  boys  would  thrid 
The  alder  thickets  at  the  water's  edge, 
Conjecturing  forward,  though  the  Present  lay 
Like  Eden  round  us  ;  for  the  Future  shone  — 
The  sun  to  which  each  young  heart  turned  for  light ! 
What  wild  conceits  of  great,  oracular  lives, 
Ourselves  would  equal !  but  let  that  go  by : 
Each  has  gone  by,  in  turn,  to  humbler  fates. 
Sometimes  we  angled,  and  our  trolling  hooks 
Swung  the  gray  pickerel  from  his  reedy  shoals. 
Beyond  a  horseshoe  bend,  the  current's  force 
Wore  out  a  deeper  channel,  where  the  shore 
Fell  off,  precipitous,  on  the  western  side. 
There  dived  the  bathers  ;  there  I  learned  to  swim,  — 


THE  FRESHET.  5! 

Flung  far  into  the  middle  stream  by  one 

Who  watched  my  gaspings,  laughing,  till  my  limbs, 

Half  of  themselves,  struck  out,  and  held  me  up. 

Far  down,  a  timbered  dam,  from  bank  to  bank, 

Shut  back  the  waters  in  a  shadowy  lake, 

About  a  mimic  island.     Languidly 

The  chestnuts  still  infoliate  its  space, 

And  still  the  whispering  flags  are  intertwined 

With  whitest  water-lilies  near  the  marge. 

Close  by,  the  paper-mill,  with  murmurous  wheel, 

Still  glistens  through  the  branches,  while  its  score 

Of  laughing  maidens  throng  the  copse  at  noon. 

But  we,  with  careless  arms  upon  the  rail, 
Peered  through  and  through  the  water ;  almost  saw 
Its  silvery  Naiads,  from  their  wavering  depths, 
Gleam  with  strange  faces  upward  ;  almost  heard 
Sweet  voices  carol :  "Ah,  you  all  come  back  \ 
We  charm  your  childhood  ;  then  you  roam  away, 
To  float  on  alien  waters,  like  the  winds  ; 
But,  ah,  you  all  come  back,  —  come  dreaming  back  \ " 

At  last  I  broke  the  silence  :  "  See,"  I  said 
To  Gilbert,  "  see  how  fair  our  dear  old  stream  ! 
How  calm,  beneath  the  shadow  of  these  piers, 
It  eddies  in  and  out,  and  cools  itself 
In  slumberous  ripples  whispering  repose." 

But  he  made  answer :  "  Yes,  this  August  day 
The  wave  is  summer-charmed,  the  fields  are  hazed  ; 
But  in  the  callow  Spring,  when  Easter  winds 
Are  on  us,  laden  with  rain,  these  fickle  streams  — 
More  gentle  now  than  in  his  cradled  sleep 
Some  Alexander  —  take  up  arms,  spread  wide, 


52  EARLY  POEMS. 

Leap  high  and  cruel  in  a  fierce  campaign 
Along  their  valleys.     See  this  trellised  bridge, 
New-built,  and  firmer  than  the  one  from  which 
We  fellows  dropped  the  line  :  —  that  went  away 
Two  years  ago,  like  straw  before  a  gale, 
In  the  great  April  flood,  of  which  you  heard, 
When  George  and  Lucy  Dorrance  lost  their  lives. 
I  saw  them  perish.     You  remember  her,  — 
She  that  was  Lucy  Hall,  —  a  charming  girl, 
The  fairest  of  our  schoolmates,  with  a  heart 
Light  as  her  smile  and  fastened  all  upon 
The  boy  that  won  her ;  yet  her  glances  fell 
Among  us,  right  and  left,  like  shooting  stars 
In  clear  October  nights  when  winds  are  still. 

"  That  year  our  Equinoctial  came  along 
Ere  the  snow  left  us.     Under  mountain  pines 
White  drifts  lay  frozen  like  the  dead,  and  down 
Through  many  a  gorge  the  bristling  hemlocks  crossed 
Their  spears  above  the  ice-enfettered  brooks  ; 
But  the  pent  river  wailed,  through  prison  walls, 
For  freedom  and  the  time  to  rend  its  chains. 
At  last  it  came :  five  days  a  drenching  rain 
Flooded  the  country  ;  snow-drifts  fell  away  ; 
The  brooks  grew  rivers,  and  the  river  here  — 
A  ravenous,  angry  torrent  —  tore  up  banks, 
And  overflowed  the  meadows,  league  on  league. 
Great  cakes  of  ice,  four-square,  with  mounds  of  hay, 
Fence-rails,  and  scattered  drift-wood,  and  huge  beams 
From  broken  dams  above  us,  mill-wheel  ties, 
Smooth  lumber,  and  the  torn-up  trunks  of  trees, 
Swept  downward,  strewing  all  the  land  about. 
Sometimes  the  flood  surrounded,  unawares, 
Stray  cattle,  or  a  flock  of  timorous  sheep, 


THE  FRESHET. 

And  bore  them  with  it,  struggling,  till  the  ice 
Beat  shape  and  being  from  them.     You  know  how 
These  freshets  scour  our  valleys.     So  it  raged 
A  night  and  day  ;  but  when  the  day  grew  night 
The  storm  fell  off ;  lastly,  the  sun  went  down 
Quite  clear  of  clouds,  and  ere  he  came  again 
The  flood  began  to  lower. 

"  Through  the  rise 

We  men  had  been  at  work,  like  water-sprites, 
Lending  a  helping  hand  to  cottagers 
Along  the  lowlands.     Now,  at  early  morn, 
The  banks  were  sentry-lined  with  thrifty  swains, 
Who  hauled  great  stores  of  drift-wood  up  the  slope. 
But  toward  the  bridge  our  village  maidens  soon 
Came  flocking,  thick  as  swallows  after  storms, 
When,  with  light  wing,  they  skim  the  happy  fields 
And  greet  the  sunshine.     Danger  mostly  gone, 
They  watched  the  thunderous  passage  of  the  flood 
Between  the  abutments,  while  the  upper  stream, 
Far  as  they  saw,  lay  like  a  seething  strait, 
From  hill  to  hill.     Below,  with  gradual  fall 
Through  narrower  channels,  all  was  clash  and  clang 
And  inarticulate  tumult.     Through  the  grove 
Yonder,  our  picnic-ground,  the  driving  tide 
Struck  a  new  channel,  and  the  craggy  ice 
Scored  down  its  saplings.     Following  with  the  rest 
Came  George  and  Lucy,  not  three  honeymoons 
Made  man  and  wife,  and  happier  than  a  pair 
Of  cooing  ring-doves  in  the  early  June. 

"  Two  piers,  you  know,  bore  up  the  former  bridge, 
Cleaving  the  current,  wedge-like,  on  the  north  ; 
Between  them  stood  our  couple,  intergrouped 


53 


54 


EARLY  POEMS. 


With  many  others.     On  a  sudden  loomed 

An  immolating  terror  from  above,  — 

A  floating  field  of  ice,  where  fifty  cakes 

Had  clung  together,  mingled  with  a  mass 

Of  debris  from  the  upper  conflict,  logs 

Woven  in  with  planks  and  fence-rails  ;  and  in  front 

One  huge,  old,  fallen  trunk  rose  like  a  wall 

Across  the  channel.     Then  arose  a  cry 

From  all  who  saw  it,  clamoring,  Flee  the  bridge  ! 

Run  shoreward  for  your  lives  !  and  all  made  haste, 

Eastward  and  westward,  till  they  felt  the  ground 

Stand  firm  beneath  them  ;  but,  with  close-locked  arms, 

Lucy  and  George  still  looked,  from  the  lower  rail, 

Toward  the  promontory  where  we  stood, 

Nor  saw  the  death,  nor  seemed  to  hear  the  cry. 

Run  George  !  run  Lucy  !  shouted  all  at  once  : 

Too  late,  too  late  !  for,  with  resistless  crash, 

Against  both  piers  that  mighty  ruin  lay 

A  space  that  seemed  an  hour,  yet  far  too  short 

For  rescue.     Swaying  slowly  back  and  forth, 

With  ponderous  tumult,  all  the  bridge  went  off; 

Piers,  beams,  planks,  railings  snapped  their  groaning 

ties 
And  fell  asunder  ! 

"  But  the  middle  part, 

Wrought  with  great  bolts  of  iron,  like  a  raft 
Held  out  awhile,  whirled  onward  in  the  wreck 
This  way  and  that,  and  washed  with  freezing  spray. 
Faster  than  I  can  tell  you,  it  came  down 
Beyond  our  point,  and  in  a  flash  we  saw 
George,  on  his  knees,  close-clinging  for  dear  life, 
One  arm  around  the  remnant  of  the  rail, 
One  clasping  Lucy.     We  were  pale  as  they, 


THE  FRESHET. 

Powerless  to  save  ;  but  even  as  they  swept 
Across  the  bend,  and  twenty  stalwart  men 
Ran  to  and  fro  with  clamor  for  A  rope  ! 
A  boat !  —  their  cries  together  reached  the  shore  : 
Save  her  !  Save  him!  —  so  true  Love  conquers  all. 
Furlongs  below  they  still  more  closely  held 
Each  other,  'mid  a  thousand  shocks  of  ice 
And  seething  horrors  ;  till,  at  last,  the  end 
Came,  where  the  river,  scornful  of  its  bed, 
Struck  a  new  channel,  roaring  through  the  grove. 
There,  dashed  against  a  naked  beech  that  stood 
Grimly  in  front,  their  shattered  raft  gave  up 
Its  precious  charge  ;  and  then  a  mist  of  tears 
Blinded  all  eyes,  through  which  we  seemed  to  see 
Two  forms  in  death-clasp  whirled  along  the  flood, 
And  all  was  over. 

"  Then  from  out  the  crowd 
Certain  went  up  the  lane,  and  broke  the  news 
To  Lucy's  widowed  mother  ;  she  spoke  not, 
Nor  wept,  nor  murmured,  but  with  stony  glare 
Took  in  her  loss,  like  Niobe,  and  to  bed 
Moved  stolidly  and  never  rose  again. 
Old  Farmer  Dorrance  gave  a  single  groan, 
And  hurried  down  among  us  —  all  the  man, 
Though  white  with  anguish  —  as  we  took  our  course 
Around  the  meadows,  searching  for  the  dead. 

"An  eddying  gulf  ran  up  the  hither  bank, 
Close  by  the  paper-mill,  and  there  the  flood 
Gave  back  its  booty  ;  there  we  found  them  laid, 
Covered  with  floating  leaves  and  twigs  of  trees, 
Not  many  feet  apart :  so  Love's  last  clasp 
Held  lingeringly,  until  the  cruel  ice 


55 


56  EARLY  POEMS. 

Battered  its  fastenings.     On  a  rustic  bier, 
Made  of  loose  boughs  and  strewn  with  winter  ferns, 
We  placed  them,  side  by  side,  and  bore  them  home. 
The  old  man  walked  behind  them,  by  himself, 
And  wrung  his  hands  and  bowed  his  head  in  tears." 

So  Gilbert  told  his  story  ;   I,  meanwhile, 
Followed  his  finger's  pointing,  as  it  marked 
Each  spot  he  mentioned,  like  a  teacher's  wand. 
But  now  the  sun  hung  low  ;  from  many  a  field 
The  loitering  kine  went  home  with  tinkling  bells. 
Slow-turning,  toward  the  farm  we  made  our  way, 
And  met  a  host  of  maidens,  merry-eyed, 
Whom  I  knew  not,  yet  caught  a  frequent  glance 
I  seemed  to  know,  that  half-way  brought  to  mind 
Sweet  eyes  I  loved  to  watch  in  school-boy  days,  — 
Sweet  sister-eyes  to  those  that  glistened  now. 


THE  SLEIGH-RIDE. 


H 


1ARK!  the  jingle 

Of  the  sleigh-bells'  song  ! 
Earth  and  air  in  snowy  sheen  commingle  ; 

Swiftly  throng 
Norseland  fancies,  as  we  sail  along. 

Like  the  maiden 
Of  some  fairy-tale, 
Lying,  spell-bound,  in  her  diamond-laden 

Bridal  veil, 
Sleeps  the  Earth  beneath  a  garment  pale. 


"Hark!  the  jingle 
Of  the  sleigh-bells'  song.' 


Page  56. 


THE  SLEIGH-RIDE. 

High  above  us 
Gleams  the  ancient  moon, 
Gleam  the  eyes  of  shining  ones  that  love  us  : 

Could  their  tune 
Only  fill  our  ears  at  heaven's  noon, 

You  and  I,  love, 
With  a  wild  delight, 
Hearing  that  seraphic  strain  would  die,  love, 

This  same  night, 
Straight  to  join  them  in  their  starry  height ! 

Closer  nestle, 
Dearest,  to  my  side. 
What  enchantment,  in  our  magic  vessel 

Thus  to  glide, 
Making  music,  on  a  silver  tide  ! 

Jingle  !  jingle  ! 
How  the  fields  go  by  ! 
Earth  and  air  in  snowy  sheen  commingle, 

Far  and  nigh  ; 
Is  the  ground  beneath  us,  or  the  sky  ? 

Heavenward  yonder, 
In  the  lurid  north, 
From  Valhalla's  gates  that  roll  asundar> 

Red  and  wroth, 
Balder's  funeral  flames  are  blazing  forth. 

O,  what  splendor  ! 
How  the  hues  expire  ! 
All  the  elves  of  light  their  tribute  render 

To  the  pyre, 

Clad  in  robes  of  gold  and  crimson  fire. 
3* 


58  EARLY  POEMS. 

Jingle  !  jingle ! 
Let  the  Earth  go  by  ! 
With  a  wilder  thrill  our  pulses  tingle ; 

You  and  I 
Will  shout  our  loves,  but  aye  forget  to  sigh  1 


THE  BALLAD  OF  LAGER  BIER. 

IN  fallow  college  days,  Tom  Harland, 
We  both  have  known  the  ways  of  Yale, 
And  talked  of  many  a  nigh  and  far  land, 

O'er  many  a  famous  tap  of  ale. 
There  still  they  sing  their  Gaudeamus, 

And  see  the  road  to  glory  clear  ; 
But  taps,  that  in  our  day  were  famous, 
Have  given  place  to  Lager  Bier. 

Now,  settled  in  this  island-city, 

We  let  new  fashions  have  their  weight ; 
Though  none  too  lucky  —  more 's  the  pity  !  - 

Can  still  beguile  our  humble  state 
By  finding  time  to  come  together, 

In  every  season  of  the  year, 
In  sunny,  wet,  or  windy  weather, 

And  clink  our  mugs  of  Lager  Bier. 

On  winter  evenings,  cold  and  blowing, 
'T  is  good  to  order  "  'alf-and-'alf  "  ; 

To  watch  the  fire-lit  pewter  glowing, 
And  laugh  a  hearty  English  laugh  ; 


THE  BALLAD   OF  LAGER  BIER. 

Or  even  a  sip  of  mountain  whiskey 
Can  raise  a  hundred  phantoms  dear 

Of  days  when  boyish  blood  was  frisky, 
And  no  one  heard  of  Lager  Bier. 

We  Ve  smoked  in  summer  with  Oscanyan, 

Cross-legged  in  that  defunct  bazaar, 
Until  above  our  heads  the  banyan 

Or  palm-tree  seemed  to  spread  afar  ; 
And,  then  and  there,  have  drunk  his  sherbet, 

Tinct  with  the  roses  of  Cashmere  : 
That  Orient  calm  !  who  would  disturb  it 

With  Norseland  calls  for  Lager  Bier  ? 

There  's  Paris  chocolate,  —  nothing  sweeter, 

At  midnight,  when  the  dying  strain, 
Just  warbled  by  La  Favorita, 

Still  hugs  the  music-haunted  brain  ; 
Yet  of  all  bibulous  compoundings, 

Extracts  or  brewings,  mixed  or  clear, 
The  best,  in  substance  and  surroundings, 

For  frequent  use,  is  Lager  Bier. 

Karl  Schaeffer  is  a  stalwart  brewer, 

Who  has  above  his  vaults  a  hall, 
Where  —  fresh-tapped,  foaming,  cool,  and  pure 

He  serves  the  nectar  out  to  all. 
Tom  Harland,  have  you  any  money  ? 

Why,  then,  we'll  leave  this  hemisphere, 
This  western  land  of  milk  and  honey, 

For  one  that  flows  with  Lager  Bier. 

Go,  flaxen-haired  and  blue-eyed  maiden, 
My  German  Hebe  !  hasten  through 


59 


EARL  Y  POEMS. 

Yon  smoke-cloud,  and  return  thou  laden 
With  bread  and  cheese  and  bier  for  two. 

Limburger  suits  this  bearded  fellow  ; 
His  brow  is  high,  his  taste  severe  : 

But  I  'm  for  Schweitzer,  mild  and  yellow, 
To  eat  with  bread  and  Lager  Bier. 

Ah,  yes  !  the  Schweitzer  hath  a  savor 

Of  marjoram  and  mountain  thyme, 
An  odoriferous,  Alpine  flavor ; 

You  almost  hear  the  cow-bells  chime 
While  eating  it,  or,  dying  faintly, 

The  Ranz-des-vaches  entrance  the  ear, 
Until  you  feel  quite  Swiss  and  saintly, 

Above  your  glass  of  Lager  Bier. 

Here  comes  our  drink,  froth-crowned  and  sunlit, 

In  goblets  with  high-curving  arms, 
Drawn  from  a  newly  opened  runlet, 

As  bier  must  be,  to  have  its  charms. 
This  primal  portion  each  shall  swallow 

At  one  draught,  for  a  pioneer ; 
And  thus  a  ritual  usage  follow 

Of  all  who  honor  Lager  Bier. 

Glass  after  glass  in  due  succession, 

Till,  borne  through  midriff,  heart,  and  brain, 
He  mounts  his  throne  and  takes  possession,  — 

The  genial  Spirit  of  the  grain  ! 
Then  comes  the  old  Berserker  madness 

To  make  each  man  a  priest  and  seer, 
And,  with  a  Scandinavian  gladness, 

Drink  deeper  draughts  of  Lager  Bier  ! 


THE  BALLAD   OF  LAGER  BIER. 

Go,  maiden,  fill  again  our  glasses  ! 

While,  with  anointed  eyes,  we  scan 
The  blouse  Teutonic  lads  and  lasses, 

The  Saxon  —  Pruss  —  Bohemian, 
The  sanded  floor,  the  cross-beamed  gables, 

The  ancient  Flemish  paintings  queer, 
The  rusty  cup-stains  on  the  tables, 

The  terraced  kegs  of  Lager  Bier. 

And  is  it  Gottingen,  or  Gotha, 

Or  Munich's  ancient  Wagner  Brei, 
Where  each  Bavarian  drinks  his  quota, 

And  swings  a  silver  tankard  high  ? 
Or  some  ancestral  Gast-Haus  lofty 

In  Nuremburg  —  of  famous  cheer 
When  Hans  Sachs  lived,  and  where,  so  oft,  he 

Sang  loud  the  praise  of  Lager  Bier? 

For  even  now  some  curious  glamour 

Has  brought  about  a  misty  change  ! 
Things  look,  as  in  a  moonlight  dream,  or 

Magician's  mirror,  quaint  and  strange. 
Some  weird,  phantasmagoric  notion 

Impels  us  backward  many  a  year, 
And  far  across  the  northern  ocean, 

To  Fatherlands  of  Lager  Bier. 

As  odd  a  throng  I  see  before  us 

As  ever  haunted  Brocken's  height, 
Carousing,  with  unearthly  chorus, 

On  any  wild  Walpurgis-night ; 
I  see  the  wondrous  art-creations  ! 

In  proper  guise  they  all  appear, 
And,  in  their  due  and  several  stations, 

Unite  in  drinking  Lager  Bier. 


EARLY  POEMS. 

I  see  in  yonder  nook  a  trio  : 

There  's  Doctor  Faust,  and,  by  his  side, 
Not  half  so  love-distraught  as  lo, 

Is  gentle  Margaret,  heaven-eyed  ; 
That  man  in  black  beyond  the  waiter  — 

I  know  him  by  his  fiendish  leer  — 
Is  Mephistophiles,  the  traitor  ! 

And  how  he  swigs  his  Lager  Bier ! 

Strange  if  great  Goethe  should  have  blundered, 

Who  says  that  Margaret  slipt  and  fell 
In  Anno  Domini  Sixteen  Hundred, 

Or  thereabout ;  and  Faustus,  —  well, 
We  won't  deplore  his  resurrection, 

Since  Margaret  is  with  him  here, 
But,  under  her  serene  protection, 

May  boldly  drink  our  Lager  Bier. 

That  bare-legged  gypsy,  small  and  lithy, 

Tanned  like  an  olive  by  the  sun, 
Is  little  Mignon  ;  sing  us,  prithee, 

Kennst  du  das  Land,  my  pretty  one  ! 
Ah,  no  !  she  shakes  her  southern  tresses, 

As  half  in  doubt  and  more  in  fear ; 
Perhaps  the  elvish  creature  guesses 

We  Ve  had  too  much  of  Lager  Bier. 

There  moves,  full-bodiced,  ripe,  and  human, 

With  merry  smiles  to  all  who  come, 
Karl  Schaeffer's  wife,  —  the  very  woman 

Whom  Rubens  drew  his  Venus  from  ! 
But  what  a  host  of  tricksome  graces 

Play  round  our  fairy  Undine  here, 
Who  pouts  at  all  the  bearded  faces, 

And,  laughing,  brings  the  Lager  Bier. 


THE  BALLAD   OF  LAGER  BIER. 

"  Sit  down,  nor  chase  the  vision  farther, 

You  're  tied  to  Yankee  cities  still !  " 
I  hear  you,  but  so  much  the  rather 

Should  Fancy  travel  where  she  will 
Yet  let  the  dim  ideals  scatter ; 

One  puff,  and  lo  !  they  disappear ; 
The  comet,  next,  or  some  such  matter, 

We  '11  talk  above  our  Lager  Bier. 

Now,  then,  your  eyes  begin  to  brighten, 

And  marvellous  theories  to  flow  ; 
A  philosophic  theme  you  light  on, 

And,  spurred  and  booted,  off  you  go  ! 
If  e'er  —  to  drive  Apollo's  phaeton — 

I  need  an  earthly  charioteer, 
This  tall-browed  genius  I  will  wait  on, 

And  prime  him  first  with  Lager  Bier. 

But  higher  yet,  in  middle  Heaven, 

Your  steed  seems  taking  flight,  my  friend  ; 
You  read  the  secret  of  the  Seven, 

And  on  through  trackless  regions  wend  ! 
Don't  vanish  in  the  Milky  Way,  for 

This  afternoon  you  're  wanted  here  ; 
Come  back  !  come  back  !  and  help  me  pay  for 

The  bread  and  cheese  and  Lager  Bier. 


64  EARLY  POEMS, 


HOW  OLD  BROWN  TOOK  HARPER'S  FERRY. 

JOHN  BROWN  in  Kansas  settled,  like  a  steadfast 
Yankee  farmer, 
Brave  and  godly,  with  four  sons,  all  stalwart  men  of 

might. 
There  he  spoke  aloud  for  freedom,  and  the  Border-strife 

grew  warmer, 

Till  the  Rangers  fired  his  dwelling,  in  his  absence,  in 
the  night ; 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Came  homeward  in  the  morning — to  find  his  house 
burned  down. 

Then  he  grasped  his  trusty  rifle  and  boldly  fought  for 

freedom ; 
Smote  from  border  unto  border  the  fierce,  invading 

band ; 
And  he  and  his  brave  boys  vowed  —  so  might  Heaven 

help  and  speed  'em  !  — 

They  would  save  those  grand  old  prairies  from  the 
curse  that  blights  the  land  ; 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Said,  "  Boys,  the  Lord  will  aid  us  !  "  and  he  shoved 
his  ramrod  down. 

And  the  Lord  did  aid  these  men,  and  they  labored  day 

and  even, 

Saving  Kansas  from  its  peril ;  and  their  very  lives 
seemed  charmed, 


HOW  BROWN  TOOK  HARPER'S  FERRY.       65 

Till  the  ruffians  killed  one  son,  in  the  blessed  light  of 

Heaven,  — 

In  cold  blood  the  fellows  slew  him,  as  he  journeyed 
all  unarmed  ; 

Then  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Shed  not  a  tear,  but  shut  his  teeth,  and  frowned  a  ter- 
rible frown  ! 

Then  they  seized  another  brave  boy,  —  not  amid  the 

heat  of  battle, 
But  in  peace,  behind  his  ploughshare,  —  and  they 

loaded  him  with  chains, 
And  with  pikes,  before  their  horses,  even  as  they  goad 

their  cattle, 

Drove  him  cruelly,  for  their  sport,  and  at  last  blew 
out  his  brains  ; 

Then  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Raised  his  right  hand  up  to  Heaven,  calling  Heaven's 
vengeance  down. 

And  he  swore   a  fearful   oath,   by   the   name   of  the 

Almighty, 
He  would  hunt  this  ravening  evil  that  had  scathed 

and  torn  him  so  ; 
He  would  seize  it  by  the  vitals  ;  he  would  crush  it  day 

and  night ;  he 

Would  so   pursue   its  footsteps,  so  return  it  blow 
for  blow, 

That  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Should  be  a  name  to  swear  by,  in  backwoods  or  in 
town ! 


66  EARLY  POEMS. 

Then  his  beard  became  more  grizzled,  and  his  wild 

blue  eye  grew  wilder, 
And  more  sharply  curved  his  hawk's-nose,  snuffing 

battle  from  afar ; 
And  he  and  the  two  boys  left,  though  the  Kansas  strife 

waxed  milder, 

Grew  more  sullen,  till  was  over  the  bloody  Border 
War, 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Had  gone  crazy,  as  they  reckoned  by  his  fearful  glare 
and  frown. 

So  he  left  the  plains  of  Kansas  and  their  bitter  woes 

behind  him, 
Slipt  off  into  Virginia,  where  the  statesmen  all  are 

born, 
Hired  a  farm  by  Harper's  Ferry,  and  no  one  knew 

where  to  find  him, 

Or  whether  he  'd  turned  parson,  or  was  jacketed  and 
shorn ; 

For  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Mad  as  he  was,  knew  texts  enough  to  wear  a  parson's 
gown. 

He  bought  no  ploughs  and  harrows,  spades  and  shov- 
els, and  such  trifles  ; 

But  quietly  to  his  rancho  there  came,  by  every  trafn, 
Boxes  full  of  pikes  and  pistols,  and  his  well-beloved 

Sharp's  rifles  ; 

And  eighteen  other  madmen  joined  their  leader  there 
again. 


HOW  BROWN  TOOK  HARPER'S  FERRY. 


67 


Says  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

"  Boys,  we  've  got  an  army  large  enough  to  march 
and  take  the  town  ! 

"  Take  the  town,  and  seize  the  muskets,  free  the  ne- 
groes and  then  arm  them  ; 

Carry  the  County  and  the  State,  ay,  and  all  the  po- 
tent South. 
On  their  own  heads  be  the  slaughter,  if  their  victims 

rise  to  harm  them  — 

These   Virginians  !    who    believed   not,    nor   would 
heed  the  warning  mouth." 
Says  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

"  The  world  shall  see  a  Republic,  or  my  name  is  not 
John  Brown." 

'T  was  the  sixteenth  of  October,  on  the  evening  of  a 

Sunday : 
"This  good  work,"  declared  the  captain,  "shall  be 

on  a  holy  night !  " 
It  was  on  a  Sunday  evening,  and  before  the  noon  of 

Monday, 

With  two  sons,  and  Captain  Stephens,  fifteen  pri- 
vates —  black  and  white, 
Captain  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Marched  across  the  bridged  Potomac,  and  knocked  the 
sentry  down  ; 

Took  the  guarded  armory-building,  and  the  muskets 

and  the  cannon ; 

Captured  all  the  county  majors  and  the  colonels,  one 
by  one ; 


68  EARLY  POEMS. 

Scared  to  death  each  gallant  scion  of  Virginia  they  ran 

on, 

And  before  the  noon  of  Monday,  I  say,  the  deed  was 
done. 

Mad  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

With  his  eighteen  other  crazy  men,  went  in  and  took 
the  town. 

Very  little   noise  and  bluster,  little  smell   of  powder 

made  he  ; 
It  was  all  done  in  the  midnight,  like  the  Emperor's 

coup  d^etat, 
"  Cut  the  wires  !     Stop  the  rail-cars  !    Hold  the  streets 

and  bridges  !  "  said  he. 

Then  declared  the  new  Republic,  with  himself  for 
guiding  star,  — 

This  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown  ; 

And  the  bold  two  thousand  citizens  ran  off  and  left  the 
town. 

Then  was  riding  and  railroading  and  expressing  here 

and  thither ; 

And  the  Martinsburg  Sharpshooters  and  the  Charles- 
town  Volunteers, 

And  the  Shepherdstown  and  Winchester  Militia  has- 
tened whither 

Old   Brown  was   said   to   muster   his    ten  thousand 
grenadiers. 

General  Brown  ! 
Osawatomie  Brown  !  ! 

Behind  whose  rampant  banner  all  the  North  was  pour- 
ing down. 


HOW  BROWN  TOOK  HARPER'S  FERRY.       £g 

But  at  last,  't  is  said,  some  prisoners  escaped  from  Old 

Brown's  durance, 
And  the   effervescent  valor  of  the  Chivalry  broke 

out, 
When   they  learned  that  nineteen   madmen  had   the 

marvellous  assurance  — 

Only  nineteen  —  thus  to  seize  the  place  and  drive 
them  straight  about ; 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Found  an  army  come  to  take  him,  encamped  around 
the  town. 


But  to  storm,  with  all  the  forces  I  have  mentioned, 

was  too  risky  ; 
So  they  hurried  off  to  Richmond  for  the  Government 

Marines, 
Tore  them  from  their  weeping   matrons,  fired  their 

souls  with  Bourbon  whiskey, 

Till  they  battered  down  Brown's  castle  with  their  lad- 
ders and  machines  ; 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Received  three  bayonet  stabs,  and  a  cut  on  his  brave 
old  crown. 


Tallyho  !  the  old  Virginia  gentry  gather  to  the  baying.! 
In  they  rushed  and  killed  the  game,  shooting  lustily 

away ;       „ 
And  whene'er  they  slew  a  rebel,  those  who  came  too 

late  for  slaying, 

Not  to  lose  a  share  of  glory,  fired  their  bullets  in  his 
clay  ; 


JQ  EARLY  POEMS. 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Saw  his  sons  fall  dead  beside  him,  and  between  them 
laid  him  down. 

How  the  conquerors  wore  their  laurels  ;  how  they  has- 
tened on  the  trial ; 
How   Old   Brown  was    placed,   half  dying,   on   the 

Charlestown  court-house  floor  ; 

How  he  spoke  his  grand  oration,  in  the  scorn  of  all  de- 
nial ; 

What  the  brave  old  madman  told  them, — these  are 
known  the  country  o'er. 

"  Hang  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown," 

Said  the  judge,  "  and  all  such  rebels  !  "  with  his  most 
judicial  frown. 

But,  Virginians,  don't  do  it !  for  I  tell  you  that  the 

flagon, 
Filled  with  blood  of  Old  Brown's  offspring,  was  first 

poured  by  Southern -hands  ; 
And  each  drop  from  Old  Brown's  life-veins,  like  the 

red  gore  of  the  dragon, 

May  spring  up  a  vengeful  Fury,  hissing  through  your 
slave-worn  lands  ! 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

May  trouble  you  more  than  ever,  when  you  've  naile^ 
his  coffin  down ! 

NOVEMBER,  1859. 


SONNETS. 


HOPE  DEFERRED. 

BRING  no  more  flowers  and  books  and  precious 
things  ! 

O  speak  no  more  of  our  beloved  Art, 
Of  summer  haunts,  —  melodious  wanderings 
In  leafy  refuge  from  this  weary  mart ! 
Surely  such  ^thoughts  were  dear  unto  my  heart ; 
Now  every  word  a  newer  sadness  brings  ! 
Thus  oft  some  forest-bird,  caged  far  apart 
From  verdurous  freedom,  droops  his  careless  wings, 
Nor  craves  for  more  than  food  from  day  to  day  ; 
So  long  bereft  of  wildwood  joy  and  song, 
Hopeless  of  all  he  dared  to  hope  so  long, 
The  music  born  within  him  dies  away  ; 
Even  the  song  he  loved  becomes  a  pain, 
Full-freighted  with  a  yearning  all  in  vain. 


SONNETS. 


A  MOTHER'S  PICTURE. 

SHE  seemed  an  angel  to  our  infant  eyes  ! 
Once,  when  the  glorifying  moon  revealed 
Her  who  at  evening  by  our  pillow  kneeled,  — 
Soft-voiced  and  golden-haired,  from  holy  skies 
Flown  to  her  loves  on  wings  of  Paradise,  — 
We  looked  to  see  the  pinions  half  concealed. 
The  Tuscan  vines  and  olives  will  not  yield 
Her  back  to  me,  who  loved  her  in  this  wise, 
And  since  have  little  known  her,  but  have  grown 
To  see  another  mother,  tenderly 
Watch  over  sleeping  children  of  my  own. 
Perchance  the  years  have  changed  her  :  yet  alone 
This  picture  lingers  ;  still  she  seems  to  me 
The  fair  young  angel  of  my  infancy. 


POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    YOUTH. 


POEMS  WRITTEN   IN  YOUTH 

ELFIN  SONG. 

KROM  "THE  RIME  OF  THE  ELLE-KING." 


I^AR  in  the  western  ocean's  breast 

-*-      The  summer  fairies  have  found  a  nest ; 

The  heavens  ever  unclouded  smile 

Over  the  breadth  of  their  beautiful  isle  ; 

Through  it  a  hundred  streamlets  flow, 

In  spangled  paths,  to  the  sea  below, 

And  woo  the  vales  that  beside  them  lie 

With  a  low  and  tremulous  minstrelsy. 

The  elfin  brood  have  homes  they  love 

In  the  earth  below  and  skies  above  ; 

But  the  haunt  which  of  all  they  love  the  best 

Is  the  palm-crowned  isle,  in  the  ocean's  breast, 

That  mortals  call  Canary  ; 
And  many  an  Ariel,  blithesome,  airy, 
And  each  laughing  Fay  and  lithesome  Fairy, 
Know  well  the  mystical  way  in  the  West 

To  the  sweet  isle  of  Canary. 


76  POEMS   WRITTEN  IN   YOUTH. 


With  an  ever-sounding  choral  chant, 
And  a  clear,  cerulean,  wild  desire 
To  clasp  that  fairy  island  nigher, 
The  sinuous  waves  of  ocean  pant ; 
For  here  all  natural  things  are  free 
To  mingle  in  passionate  harmony. 
The  light  from  their  mirror  turns  away 
With  a  golden  splendor,  in  the  day, 
But  nightly,  when  coroneted  Even 
Marshals  the  shining  queen  of  heaven, 
There  gleams  a  silvery  scenery, 
From  the  rim  of  the  great  prismatic  sea 

Around  the  isle  of  Canary, 
To  the  central  crags  of  Pisgatiri, 
Where  the  crested  eagle  builds  his  eyry, 

Scanning  the  shores  of  sweet  Canary. 

3- 

Lustrously  sailing  here  and  there, 
Afloat  in  the  beatific  air, 
Birds,  of  purple  and  blue  and  gold, 
Pour  out  their  music  manifold  ; 
All  day  long  in  the  leas  they  sing, 
While  the  sun-kissed  flowers  are  blossoming : 
At  eve,  when  the  dew-drop  feeds  the  rose, 
And  the  fragrant  water-lilies  close, 
The  marvellous-throated  nightingale 
With  a  dying  music  floods  each  vale, 
Till  the  seaward  breezes,  listening,  stay 
To  catch  the  harmony  of  his  lay 

And  cool  the  air  of  Canary  ; 
And  thus  the  melodies  ever  vary, 
I  n  the  vales  of  the  ocean  aviary, 

In  the  blissful  valleys  of  sweet  Canary. 


ELFIN  SONG. 


The  Elle-King's  palace  was  builded  there 
By  elves  of  water  and  earth  and  air  ; 
Lovingly  worked  each  loyal  sprite, 
And  it  grew  to  life  in  a  summer  night. 
Over  the  sheen  of  its  limpid  moat, 
Wafted  along,  in  a  magic  boat, 
By  fairy  wings  that  fan  the  sails, 
And  eddying  through  enchanted  vales, 
Through  walls  of  amber  and  crystal  gates, 
We  come  where  a  fairy  warder  waits  ; 
And  so,  by  many  a  winding  way 
Where  sweet  bells  jingle  and  fountains  play, 
To  the  inmost,  royalest  room  of  all,  — 
The  elfin  monarch's  reception-hall, 

The  pearl  and  pride  of  Canary  ! 
To  guard  its  fastness  the  elves  are  wary, 
And  no  weird  thing,  of  pleasure  chary, 

Can  enter  with  evil  in  sweet  Canary ! 


All  that  saddens,  and  care  and  pain, 
Are  banished  far  from  that  fair  domain  ; 
There  forever,  by  day  and  night, 
Is  naught  but  pleasance  and  love's  delight ; 
Daily,  the  Genii  of  the  flowers 
Shade  with  beauty  a  hundred  bowers  ; 
Nightly,  the  Gnomes  of  precious  stones 
Emblazon  and  light  a  hundred  thrones  ; 
And  the  Elves  of  the  field,  so  swift  and  mute, 
Bring  wine  and  honey  and  luscious  fruit ; 
And  the  Sylphs  of  the  air,  at  noontide,  cool 
The  depths  of  each  bower  and  vestibule ; 


77 


POEMS   WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 

And  all  are  gay,  —  from  the  tricksome  Fay 
Who  flutters  in  woodlands  far  away, 
To  the  best-beloved  attendant  Elf, 
And  the  royal  heart  of  the  King  himself, 

Who  rules  in  bright  Canary  ; 
And  the  laboring  Fairies  are  blithe  and  merry, 
Who  press  the  juice  from  the  swollen  berry 

That  reddens  the  vines  of  sweet  Canary. 

6. 

What  if  there  be  a  fated  day 
When  the  Faery  Isle  shall  pass  away, 
And  its  beautiful  groves  and  fountains  seem 
The  myths  of  a  long,  delicious  dream  ! 
A  century's  joys  shall  first  repay 
Our  hearts,  for  the  evil  of  that  day  ; 
And  the  Elfin- King  has  sworn  to  wed 
A  daughter  of  Earth,  whose  child  shall  be, 
By  cross  and  water  hallowed, 
From  the  fairies'  doom  forever  free. 
What  if  there  be  a  fated  day  ! 
It  is  far  away  !  it  is  far  away  ! 
Maiden,  fair  Maiden,  I,  who  sing 
Of  this  summer  isle  am  the  island  King. 
I  come  from  its  joys  to  make  thee  mine  : 
Half  of  my  kingdom  shall  be  thine  ; 
Our  horses  of  air  and  ocean  wait  — 
Then  hasten,  and  share  the  Elle- King's  state 

In  the  sweet  isle  of  Canary ; 
And  many  an  Ariel,  blithesome,  airy, 
And  each  laughing  Fay  and  lithesome  Fairy, 
Shall  rovingly  hover  around  and  over  thee, 
And  the  love  of  a  king  shall  evermore  cover  thee, 

Nightly  and  daily  in  sweet  Canary. 


AM  A  VI. 


AMAVI. 

T   LOVED  :  and  in  the  morning  sky, 
*•   A  magic  castle  upward  grew ! 
Cloud-haunted  turrets  pointing  high 

Forever  to  the  dreamy  blue  ; 

Bright  fountains  leaping  through  and  through 
The  golden  sunshine  ;  on  the  air 

Gay  banners  streaming  ;  —  never  drew 
Painter  or  poet  scene  more  fair. 

And  in  that  castle  I  would  live, 

And  in  that  castle  I  would  die  ; 
And  there,  in  curtained  bowers,  would  give 

Heart-warm  responses,  sigh  for  sigh ; 

There,  when  but  one  sweet  face  was  nigh, 
The  hours  should  lightly  move  along, 

And  ripple,  as  they  glided  by, 
Like  stanzas  of  an  antique  song. 

O  foolish  heart !     O  young  romance, 

That  faded  with  the  noonday  sun  ! 
Alas,  for  gentle  dalliance, 

For  life-long  pleasures  never  won  ! 

O  for  a  season  dead  and  gone  ! 
A  wizard  time,  which  then  did  seem 

Only  a  prelude,  leading  on 
To  sweeter  portions  of  the  dream. 

She  died,  —  nor  wore  my  orange  flowers  :  — 
No  longer,  in  the  morning  sky, 


go  POEMS   WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 

That  magic  castle  lifts  its  towers 
Which  shone,  awhile,  so  lustrously. 
Torn  are  the  bannerols,  and  dry 

The  silver  fountains  in  its  halls  ; 
But  the  drear  sea,  with  endless  sigh, 

Moans  round  and  over  the  crumbled  walls. 


Let  the  winds  blow  !  let  the  white  surge 

Ever  among  those  ruins  wail  ! 
Its  moaning  is  a  welcome  dirge 

For  wishes  that  could  not  avail. 

Let  the  winds  blow  !  a  fiercer  gale 
Is  wild  within  me  !  what  may  quell 

That  sullen  tempest  ?     I  must  sail 
Whither,  O  whither,  who  can  tell ! 


ODE  TO  PASTORAL  ROMANCE. 

"  Sounds  and  sweet  airs,  that  give  delight  and  hurt  not'' 

THE  TEMPEST. 

I. 

QUEEN  of  the  shadowy  clime  ! 
Thou  of  the  fairy-spell  and  wondrous  lay : 
Sweet  Romance  !  breathe  upon  my  way, 
Not  with  the  breath  of  this  degenerate  time, 
But  of  that  age  when  life  was  summer  play, 
When  Nature  wore  a  verdurous  hue, 

And  Earth  kept  holiday  ; 
When  on  the  ground  Chaldsean  shepherds  lay, 


ODE    TO  PASTORAL  ROMANCE.  gl 

Gazing  all  night,  with  calm,  creative  view, 

Into  the  overhanging  blue, 
And  found,  amid  the  many-twinkling  stars, 

Warriors  and  maidens  fair, 
Heroes  of  marvellous  deeds  and  direful  wars, 

Serpents  and  flaming  hair, 

The  Dragon  and  the  Bear, 
A  silvery  Venus  and  a  lurid  Mars. 


II. 

Come  at  thy  lover's  call, 
Thou,  that,  with  embraces  kind, 
Throwing  thy  tendrils  round  the  lives  of  all, 
Something  in  all  to  beautify  dost  find  ! 
So  thine  own  ivy,  on  the  Gothic  wall, 

Or  pendent  from  the  arms 
Of  gnarldd  oaks,  where'er  its  clusters  fall, 
Clings  to  adorn  and  adds  perennial  charms. 
And  therefore,  Romance,  would  I  greet 
Thee  by  the  fairest  of  fair  names, 
Calling  thee  debonair  and  sweet  ; 
For  sweet  thou  art  —  inspiring  Manhood's  dreams, 
When  all  aweary  of  the  actual  life  ; 
And  sweet  thy  influence  seems 
To  Woman,  shrinking  from  the  strife, 
The  sordid  tumult  of  the  wrangling  mart. 

But  doubly  sweet  thou  art, 
Leading  the  tender  child  by  gentle  streams, 
Among  the  lilies  of  our  flowery  Youth  ; 

Filling  his  all-believing  heart 
With  thoughts  that  glorify  the  common  truth ; 
Building  before  him,  in  the  lustrous  air, 
Ethereal  palaces  and  castles  fair. 

4*  F 


82  POEMS   WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


With  such  mild  innocence  the  Earth 
Received  thy  blessings  at  her  birth  ; 
And  in  the  pastoral  days  of  yore, 

To  Man's  enchanted  gaze, 
Nature  was  fair  —  O,  how  much  more 

Than  in  our  wiser  days  ! 
Then  deities  of  sylvan  form, 

While  yet  the  hearts  of  men  were  young  and  warm, 
Like  shepherds  wandered  through  the  arching  groves, 
Or  sang  aloud,  the  listening  flocks  among, 

Sweet  legends  of  their  loves  ; 

Then  Cupid  and  fair  Psyche  breathed  their  vows,  — 
He  with  the  feathered  darts  and  bow  unstrung, 

And  garlands  on  his  brows  ; 
She  folding  gently  to  her  bosom  doves 
Snow-white,  forever,  as  their  mistress,  young; 
And,  as  they  sighed  together,  peerless  Joy 
Enwreathed  the  maiden  and  the  raptured  boy  ! 


Yes  !  on  romantic  pilgrimage, 
To  the  calm  piety  of  Nature's  shrine, 
Through  summer-paths,  thou  ledst  our  human-kind, 

With  influence  divine. 
In  that  orient,  elden  age, 

Ere  man  had  learned  to  wage 
Dispassionate  war  against  his  natural  mind, 

Thy  voice  of  mystery, 
Reading  aloud  the  Earth's  extended  page, 
Bade  human  aspirations  find 


ODE    TO  PASTORAL  ROMANCE.  83 

In  the  cool  fountain  and  the  forest-tree 

A  sentient  imagery  \ 

The  flowing  river  and  the  murmuring  wind, 
The  land  —  the  sea  — 

Were  all  informed  by  thee  ! 


Through  coral  grottoes  wandering  and  singing, 
The  merry  Nereid  glided  to  her  cave  ; 
Anon,  with  warm,  luxurious  motion  flinging 
Her  sinuous  form  above  the  moonlit  wave, 

To  the  charmed  mariner  gave 
A  glimpse  of  snowy  arms  and  amber  tresses, 

While  on  his  startled  ear 
The  sea-nymph's  madrigal  fell  clear  ; 

Then  to  the  far  recesses, 
Where  drowsy  Neptune  wears  the  emerald  crown, 

Serenely  floated  down, 
Leaving  the  mariner  all  amort  with  fear. 

In  the  under-opening  wood, 

What  time  the  Gods  had  crowned  the  full-grown  year, 
The  Dryad  and  the  Hamadryad  stood 

Among  the  fallow  deer  ; 
Bending  the  languid  branches  of  their  trees, 

With  every  breeze, 

To  view  their  image  in  the  fountains  near :  — 
The  fountains !  whence  the  white-limbed  Naiads  sang, 
Pouring  upon  the  air  melodious  trills, 
And,  while  the  echoes  through  the  forest  rang, 
The  white-limbed  Naiads  of  a  thousand  rills 
Far  o'er  the  Arcadian  vales  a  paean  spread. 
Led  by  Diana,  in  the  dewy  dawn, 
The  Oread  sisters  chased  the  dappled  fawn 


84  POEMS   WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 

Through  all  the  coverts  of  their  native  hills  ; 
Home,  with  the  spoils,  at  sultry  noon  they  fled,  — 

Home  to  their  shaded  bowers, 
Where,  with  the  ivy,  and  those  sacred  flowers 
That  now  have  faded  from  the  weary  earth, 
Each  laughing  Oread  crowned  an  Oread's  head. 
The  mountains  echoed  back  their  maiden  mirth, 
Rousing  old  Pan,  who,  from  a  secret  lair, 
Shook  the  wild  tangles  of  his  frosty  hair, 
And  laid  him  down  again  with  sullen  roar  : 
But  now  the  frightened  nymphs  like  statues  stand, 
One  balancing  her  body  half  in  air, 
Dreading  to  hear  again  that  tumult  sore  ; 
One,  with  a  liquid  tremor  in  her  eye, 
Waving  above  her  head  a  glimmering  hand  ; 
Till  suddenly,  like  dreams,  away  they  fly, 
Leaving  the  forest  stiller  than  before  ! 


Such  was  thy  power,  O  Pastoral  Romance  ! 
In  that  ambrosial  age  of  classic  fame, 

The  spirit  to  entrance. 
Fain  would  I  whisper  of  the  latter  days, 

When,  in  thy  royal  name, 

The  maile'd  knights  encountered  lance  to  lance, 
All  for  sweet  Romance  and  fair  ladies'  praise  ; 

But  no  !  I  bowed  the  knee 
And  vowed  allegiance  to  thee, 
As  I  beheld  thee  in  thy  golden  prime, 
And  now  from  thy  demesne  must  haste  away  : 
Perchance  that  of  the  aftertime, 
Of  nodding  plumes  and  chivalrous  array, 
In  aftertime  I  sing  a  roundelay. 


ODE    TO  PASTORAL  ROMANCE.  §5 

VII. 

Fair  Spirit  of  ethereal  birth, 
In  whom  such  mysteries  and  beauties  blend  ! 
Still  from  thine  ancient  dwelling-place  descend 
And  idealize  our  too  material  earth  ; 
Still  to  the  Bard  thy  chaste  conceptions  lend, 
To  him  thine  early  purity  renew  ; 
Round  every  image  grace  majestic  throw  ! 
Till  rapturously  the  living  song  shall  glow 
With  inspiration  as  thy  being  true, 
And  Poesy's  creations,  decked  by  thee, 
Shall  wake  the  tuneful  thrill  of  sensuous  ecstasy. 

1850. 


ALICE    OF  MONMOUTH, 

AN 

IDYL   OF  THE   GREAT  WAR; 


OTHER    POEMS. 
1864. 


CTfjtg  Folttme 

IS    DEDICATED   TO   THE   MEMORY 
OF 

C.  F.  S. 

DIED:  MAY  13,  1863. 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 
I. 


i. 

HENDRICK  VAN  GHELT  of  Monmouth  shore, 
His  fame  still  rings  the  county  o'er  ! 
The  stock  that  he  raised,  the  stallion  he  rode, 
The  fertile  acres  his  farmers  sowed  ; 
The  dinners  he  gave  ;  the  yacht  which  lay 
At  his  fishing-dock  in  the  Lower  Bay  ; 
The  suits  he  waged,  through  many  a  year, 
For  a  rood  of  land  behind  his  pier,  — 
Of  these  the  chronicles  yet  remain 
From  Navesink  Heights  to  Freehold  Plain. 


The  Shrewsbury  people  in  autumn  help 
Their  sandy  toplands  with  marl  and  kelp, 
And  their  peach  and  apple  orchards  fill 
The  gurgling  vats  of  the  cross-road  mill. 
They  tell,  as  each  twirls  his  tavern-can, 
Wonderful  tales  of  that  stanch  old  man, 


92  ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 

And  they  boast,  of  the  draught  they  have  tasted  and 

smelt, 
"  'T  is  good  as  the  still  of  Hendrick  Van  Ghelt !  " 

3- 

Were  he  alive,  and  at  his  prime, 

In  this,  our  boisterous  modern  time, 

He  would  surely  be,  as  he  could  not  then, 

A  stalwart  leader  of  mounted  men,  — 

A  ranger,  shouting  his  battle-cry, 

Who  knew  how  to  fight  and  dared  to  die  ; 

And  the  fame  which  a  county's  limit  spanned 

Might  have  grown  a  legend  throughout  the  land 

4- 

He  would  have  scoured  the  Valley  through, 
Doing  as  now  our  bravest  do  ; 
Would  have  tried  rough-riding  on  the  border, 
Punishing  raider  and  marauder  ; 
With  bearded  Ashby  crossing  swords 
As  he  took  the  Shenandoah  fords  ; 
Giving  bold  Stuart  a  bloody  chase 
Ere  he  reached  again  his  trysting-place. 
Horse  and  horseman  of  the  foe 
The  blast  of  his  bugle-charge  should  know, 
And  his  men  should  water  their  steeds,  at  will, 
From  the  banks  of  Southern  river  and  rill. 

5- 

How  many  are  there  of  us,  in  this 
Discordant  social  wilderness, 
Whose  thriftiest  scions  the  power  gain, 
Through  meet  conditions  of  sun  and  rain, 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH.  g 

To  yield,  on  the  fairest  blossoming  shoot, 

A  mellow  harvest  of  perfect  fruit  ? 

Fashioned  after  so  rare  a  type, 

How  should  his  life  grow  full  and  ripe, 

There,  in  the  passionless  haunts  of  Peace, 

Through  trade,  and  tillage,  and  wealth's  increase  ? 

6. 

But  at  his  manor-house  he  dwelt, 
And  royally  bore  the  name  Van  Ghelt ; 
Nor  found  a  larger  part  to  play 
Than  such  as  a  county  magnate  may  : 
Ruling  the  hustings  as  he  would, 
Lord  of  the  rustic  neighborhood  ; 
With  potent  wishes  and  quiet  words 
Holding  an  undisputed  sway. 
The  broadest  meadows,  the  fattest  herds, 
The  fleetest  roadsters,  the  warmest  cheer,  — 
These  were  old  Hendrick's  many  a  year. 
Daughters  unto  his  hearthstone  came, 
And  a  son  —  to  keep  the  ancient  name. 

7- 

Often,  perchance,  the  old  man's  eye 
From  a  seaward  casement  would  espy, 
Scanning  the  harborage  in  the  bay, 
A  ship  which  idly  at  anchor  lay  ; 
Wafching  her  as  she  rose  and  fell, 
Up  and  down,  with  the  evening  swell, 
Her  cordage  slackened,  her  sails  unbent, 
And  all  her  proud  life  somnolent. 
And  perchance  he  thought  —  "  My  life,  it  seems, 
Like  her,  unfreighted  with  aught  but  dreams  ; 


94  ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

Yet  I  feel  within  me  a  strength  to  dare 

Some  outward  voyage,  I  know  not  where  ! r' 

But  the  forceful  impulse  wore  away 

In  the  common  life  of  every  day, 

And  for  Hendrick  Van  Ghelt  no  timely  hour 

Ruffled  the  calm  of  that  hidden  power  ; 

Yet  in  the  prelude  of  my  song 

His  storied  presence  may  well  belong, 

As  a  Lombardy  poplar,  lithe  and  hoar, 

Stands  at  a  Monmouth  farmer's  door, 

Set  like  a  spire  against  the  sky, 

Marking  the  hours,  while  lover  and  maid 

Linger  long  in  its  stately  shade, 

And  round  its  summit  the  swallows  fly. 


II. 


NATURE  a  devious  by-way  finds :  solve  me  her 
secret  whim, 

That  the  seed  of  a  gnarled  oak  should  sprout  to  a  sap- 
ling straight  and  prim  ; 
That  a  russet  should  grow  on  the  pippin  stock,  on  the 

garden-rose  a  brier  ; 

That  a  stalwart  race,  in  old  Hendrick's  son,  should 
smother  its  wonted  fire. 

Hermann,  fond  of  his  book,  and  shirking  the  brawny 

out-door  sports ; 
Sent  to  college,  and  choosing  for  life  the  law  with  her 

mouldy  courts  ; 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH.  95 

Proud,  and  of  tender  honor,  as  well  became  his  father's 

blood, 
But  with  cold  and  courtly  self-restraint  weighing  the  ill 

and  good ; 

Wed  to  a  lady  whose  delicate  veins  that  molten  azure 
held, 

Ichor  of  equal  birth,  wherewith  our  gentry  their  coup- 
lings weld ; 

Viewing  his  father's  careless  modes  with  half  a  tolerant 
eye, 

As  one  who  honors,  regretting  not,  old  fashions  pass- 
ing by. 

After  a  while  the  moment  came  when,  unto  the  son 

and  heir, 
A  son  and  heir  was  given  in  turn,  —  a  moment  of  joy 

and  prayer ; 
For  the  angel  who  guards  the.  portals  twain  oped,  in 

the  self-same  breath, 
To  the  child  the  pearly  gate  of  life,  to  the  mother  the 

gate  of  death. 

Father,  and  son,  and  an  infant  plucking  the  daisies 
over  a  grave : 

The  swell  of  a  boundless  surge  keeps  on,  wave  follow- 
ing after  wave  ; 

Ever  the  tide  of  life  sets  toward  the  low  invisible  shore  : 

Whence  had  the  current  its  distant  source  ?  when 
shall  it  flow  no  more  ? 

2. 
Nature's  serene  renewals,  that  make  the  scion  by  one 


^6  ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 

Bear  the  ancestral  blossom  and  thrive  as  the  forest 

wilding  throve  ! 
Roseate  stream  of  life,  which  hides  the  course  its  ducts 

pursue, 
To  rise,  like  that  Sicilian  fount,  in  far-off  springs  anew  ! 

For  the  grandsire's  vigor,  rude  and  rare,  asleep  in  the 

son  had  lain, 
To  waken  in  Hugh,  the  grandson's  frame,  with  the 

ancient  force  again  ; 
And  ere  the  boy,  said  the  Monmouth  wives,  had  grown 

to  his  seventh  year, 
Well  could  you  tell  whose  mantling  blood  swelled  in 

his  temples  clear. 

Tall,  and  bent  in  the  meeting  brows ;  swarthy  of  hair 
and  face ; 

Shoulders  parting  square,  but  set  with  the  future  hunts- 
man's grace  ; 

Eyes  alive  with  a  fire  which  yet  the  old  man's  visage 
wore 

At  times,  like  the  flash  of  a  thunder-cloud  when  the 
storm  is  almost  o'er. 


3- 
Toward  the  mettled  stripling,  then,  the  heart  of  the  old 

man  yearned  ; 
And   thus  —  while  Hermann  Van   Ghelt  once   more, 

with  a  restless  hunger,  turned 
From  the  grave  of  her  who  died  so  young,  to  his  books 

and  lawyer's  gown, 
And  the  ceaseless  clangor  of  mind  with  mind  in  the 

close  and  wrangling  town  — 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH.  g*r 

They  two,  the  boy  and  the  grandsire,  lived  at  the  manor- 
house,  and  grew, 

The  one  to  all  manly  arts  apace,  the  other  a  youth 
anew  — _ 

Pleased  with  the  boy's  free  spirit,  and  teaching  him, 
step  by  step,  to  wield 

The  mastery  over  living  things,  and  the  craft  of  flood 
and  field. 

Apt,  indeed,  was  the  scholar ;  and  born  with  a  subtle 

art  to  gain 
The  love  of  all  dumb  creatures  at  will ;  now  lifting 

himself,  by  the  mane, 
Over  the  neck  of  the  three-year  colt,  for  a  random 

bareback  ride, 
Now  chasing  the  waves  on  the  rifted  beach  at  the  turn 

of  the  evening  tide. 

Proud,  in  sooth,  was  the  master :  the  youngster,  he  oft 

and  roundly  swore, 
Was  fit  for  the  life  a  gentleman  led  in  the  lusty  days  of 

yore! 
And  he  took  the  boy  wherever  he  drove,  —  to  a  county 

fair  or  race  ; 
Gave  him  the  reins  and  watched  him  guide  the  span  at 

a  spanking  pace ; 

Taught  him  the  sportsman's  keen  delight :  to  swallow 

the  air  of  morn, 
And  start   the  whistling  quail  that  hides  and  feeds  in 

the  dewy  corn  ; 
Or  in  clear  November  underwoods  to  bag  the  squirrels, 

and  flush 
The  brown-winged,  mottled  partridge  a-whir  from  her 

nest  in  the  tangled  brush  ; 

5  G 


98  ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 

Taught  him  the  golden  harvest  laws,  and  the  signs  of 
sun  and  shower, 

And  the  thousand  beautiful  secret  ways  of  graft  and 
fruit  and  flower ; 

Set  him  straight  in  his  saddle,  and  cheered  him  gallop- 
ing over  the  sand  ; 

Sailed  with  him  to  the  fishing-shoals  and  placed  the 
helm  in  his  hand. 

Often  the  yacht,  with  all  sail  spread,  was  steered  by 

the  fearless  twain 
Around  the  beacon  of  Sandy  Hook,  and  out  in  the  open 

main ; 
Till  the  great  sea-surges  rolling  in,  as  south-by-east 

they  wore, 
Lifted  the  bows  of  the  dancing  craft,  and  the  buoyant 

hearts  she  bore. 

But  in  dreamy  hours,  which  young  men  know,  Hugh 

loved  with  the  tide  to  float 
Far  up  the  deep,  dark-channeled  creeks,  alone  in  his 

two-oared  boat ; 

While  a  fiery  woven  tapestry  o'erhung  the  waters  low, 
The  warp  of  the  frosted  chestnut,  the  woof  with  maple 

and  birch  aglow  ; 

Picking  the  grapes  which  dangled  down  ;  or  watching 

the  autumn  skies, 
The  osprey's  slow  imperial  swoop,  the  scrawny  heron's 

rise; 
Nursing  a  longing  for  larger  life  than  circled  a  rural 

home, 
An  instinct  of  leadership  within,  and  of  action  yet  to 


V 


'  Often  the  yacht,  with  all  sail  spread."     Page  98. 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 


99 


4- 

Curtain  of  shifting  seasons  dropt  on  moor  and  meadow 

and  hall, 
Open  your  random  vistas  of  changes  that  come  with 

time  to  all ! 
Hugh  grown  up  to  manhood  ;  foremost,  searching  the 

county  through, 
Of  the  Monmouth  youth,  in  birth  and  grace,  and  the 

strength  to  will  and  do. 

The  father,  past  the  prime  of  life,  and  his  temples 
flecked  with  toil, 

A  bookman  still,  and 'leaving  to  Hugh  the  care  of  stock 
and  soil. 

Hendrick  Van  Ghelt,  a  bowed  old  man  in  a  fireside- 
corner  chair, 

Counting  the  porcelain  Scripture  tiles  which  frame  the 
chimney  there,  — 

The  shade  of  the  stalwart  gentleman  the  people  used 

to  know, 
Forgetful  of  half  the  present  scenes,  but  mindful  of 

long-ago  ; 
Aroused,  mayhap,  by  growing  murmurs  of  Southern 

feud,  that  came 
And  woke  anew  in  his  fading  eyes  a  spark  of  their 

ancient  flame. 

5- 
Gazing  on  such  a  group  as  this,  folds  of  the  curtain 

drop, 
Hiding  the  grandsire's  form  ;  and  the  wheels  of  the 

sliding  picture  stop. 


100 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 


Gone,  that  stout  old  Hendrick,  at  last !  and  from  miles 

around  they  came,  — 
Farmer,  and  squire,  and  whispering  youths,  recalling 

his  manhood's  fame. 

Dead  :  and  the  Van  Ghelt  manor  closed,  and  the  home- 
stead acres  leased  ; 

For  their  owner  had  moved  more  near  the  town,  where 
his  daily  tasks  increased, 

Choosing  a  home  on  the  blue  Passaic,  whence  the 
Newark  spires  and  lights 

Were  seen,  and  over  the  salt  sea-marsh  the  shadows 
of  Bergen  Heights. 

Back  and  forth  from  his  city  work,  the  lawyer,  day  by 

day, 
With  the  press  of  eager  and  toiling  men,  followed  his 

wonted  way ; 
And  Hugh,  —  he  dallied  with  life  at  home,  tending  the 

garden  and  grounds  ; 
But  the  mansion  longed  for  a  woman's  voice  to  soften 

its  lonely  sounds. 

"  Hugh,"  said  Hermann  Van  Ghelt,  at  length,  "  choose 

for  yourself  a  wife, 
Comely,  and  good,  and  of  birth  to  match  the  mother 

who  gave  you  life. 
No  words  of  woman  have  charmed  my  ear  since  last  I 

heard  her  voice  ; 
And  of  fairest  and  proudest  maids  her  son  should  make 

a  worthy  choice." 

But  now  the  young  man's  wandering  heart  from  the 
great  world  turned  away, 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH.  IOi 

To  long  for  the  healthful  Monmouth  meads,  the  shores 

of  the  breezy  bay  ; 
And  often  the  scenes  and  mates  he  knew  in  boyhood 

he  sought  again, 
And  roamed  through  the  well-known  woods,  and  lay  in 

the  grass  where  he  once  had  lain. 


III. 

LADIES,  in  silks  and  laces, 
Lunching  with  lips  that  gleam. 
Know  you  aught  of  the  places 
Yielding  such  fruit  and  cream  ? 

South  from  your  harbor-islands 
Glisten  the  Monmouth  hills  ; 

There  are  the  ocean  highlands, 
Lowland  meadows  and  rills, 

Berries  in  field  and  garden, 
Trees  with  their  fruitage  low, 

Maidens  (asking  your  pardon) 
Handsome  as  cities  show. 

Know  you  that,  night  and  morning, 

A  beautiful  water-fay, 
Covered  with  strange  adorning, 

Crosses  your  rippling  bay  ? 

Her  sides  are  white  and  sparkling  ; 

She  whistles  to  the  shore  ; 
Behind,  her  hair  is  darkling, 

And  the  waters  part  before. 


102 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 

Lightly  the  waves  she  measures 
Up  to  the  wharves  of  the  town  ; 

There,  unlading  her  treasures, 
Lovingly  puts  them  down. 

Come  with  me,  ladies  ;  cluster 
Here  on  the  western  pier  ; 

Look  at  her  jewels'  lustre, 
Changed  with  the  changing  year  ! 

First  of  the  months  to  woo  her, 
June  his  strawberries  flings 

Over  her  garniture, 
Bringing  her  exquisite  things  ; 

Rifling  his  richest  casket ; 

Handing  her,  everywhere, 
Garnets  in  crate  and  basket ; 

Knowing  she  soon  will  wear 

Blackberry  jet  and  lava, 

Raspberries  ruby-red, 
Trinkets  that  August  gave  her, 

Over  her  toilet  spread. 

After  such  gifts  have  faded, 
Then  the  peaches  are  seen,  — 

Coral  and  ivory  braided, 
Fit  for  an  Indian  queen. 

And  September  will  send  her, 
Proud  of  his  wealth,  and  bold, 

Melons  glowing  in  splendor, 
Emeralds  set  with  gold. 


103 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 

So  she  glides  to  the  Narrows, 
Where  the  forts  are  astir  : 

Her  speed  is  a  shining  arrow's  ! 
Guns  are  silent  for  her. 

So  she  glides  to  the  ringing 
Bells  of  the  belfried  town, 

Kissing  the  wharves,  and  flinging 
All  of  her  jewels  down. 

Whence  she  gathers  her  riches, 
Ladies,  now  would  you  see  ? 

Leaving  your  city  niches, 
Wander  awhile  with  me. 


IV. 


i. 

HPHE  strawberry- vines  lie  in  the  sun, 
-»-    Their  myriad  tendrils  twined  in  one  ; 
Spread  like  a  carpet  of  richest  dyes, 
The  strawberry-field  in  sunshine  lies. 
Each  timorous  berry,  blushing  red, 
Has  folded  the  leaves  above  her  head, 
The  dark,  green  curtains  gemmed  with  dew ; 
But  each  blushful  berry,  peering  through, 
Shows  like  a  flock  of  the  underthread,  — 
The  crimson  woof  of  a  downy  cloth 
Where  the  elves  may  kneel  and  plight  their  troth 


Run  through  the  rustling  vines,  to  show 
Each  picker  an  even  space  to  go, 


io4 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 

Leaders  of  twinkling  cord  divide 

The  field  in  lanes  from  side  to  side ; 

And  here  and  there  with  patient  care, 

Lifting  the  leafage  everywhere, 

Rural  maidens  and  mothers  dot 

The  velvet  of  the  strawberry-plot : 

Fair  and  freckled,  old  and  young, 

With  baskets  at  their  girdles  hung, 

Searching  the  plants  with  no  rude  haste, 

Lest  berries  should  hang  unpicked,  and  waste  : 

Of  the  pulpy,  odorous,  hidden  quest, 

First  gift  of  the  fruity  months,  and  best. 

3- 

Crates  of  the  laden  baskets  cool 
Under  the  trees  at  the  meadow's  edge, 
Covered  with  grass  and  dripping  sedge, 
And  lily-leaves  from  the  shaded  pool ; 
Filled,  and  ready  to  be  borne 
To  market  before  the  morrow  morn. 
Beside  them,  gazing  at  the  skies, 
Hour  after  hour  a  young  man  lies. 
From  the  hillside,  under  the  trees, 
He  looks  across  the  field,  and  sees 
The  waves  that  ever  beyond  it  climb, 
Whitening  the  rye-slope's  early  prime  ; 
At  times  he  listens,  listlessly, 
To  the  tree-toad  singing  in  the  tree, 
Or  sees  the  catbird  peck  his  fill 
With  feathers  adroop  and  roguish  bill. 
But  often,  with  a  pleased  unrest, 
He  lifts  his  glances  to  the  west, 
Watching  the  kirtles,  red  and  blue, 
Which  cross  the  meadow  in  his  view  ; 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH.  105 

And  he  hears,  anon,  the  busy  throng 
Sing  the  Strawberry-Pickers'  Song  : 


"  Rifle  the  sweets  our  meadows  bear, 
Ere  the  day  has  reached  its  nooning  ; 

While  the  skies  are  fair,  and  the  morning  air 
Awakens  the  thrush's  tuning. 

"  Softly  the  rivulet's  ripples  flow j 
Dark  is  the  grove  that  lovers  know ; 
Here,  where  the  -whitest  blossoms  blow. 
The  reddest  and  ripest  berries  grow. 

"  Bend  to  the  crimson  fruit,  whose  stain 

Is  glowing  on  lips  and  fingers  ; 
The  sun  has  lain  in  the  leafy  plain, 

And  the  dust  of  his  pinions  lingers. 

"  Softly  the  rivulefs  ripples  flow  j 
Dark  is  the  grove  that  lovers  know ; 
Here,  where  the  whitest  blossoms  blow, 
The  reddest  and  ripest  berries  grow. 

"  Gather  the  cones  which  lie  concealed, 

With  their  vines  your  foreheads  wreathing  ; 

The  strawberry-field  its  sweets  shall  yield 
While  the  western  winds  are  breathing. 

"  Softly  the  rivulefs  ripples  flow; 
Dark  is  the  grove  that  lovers  know  j 
Here,  where  the  whitest  blossoms  blow, 
The  reddest  and  ripest  berries  grow" 

S* 


IO6  ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 

5- 

From  the  far  hillside  comes  again 
An  echo  of  the  pickers'  strain. 
Sweetly  the  group  their  cadence  keep  ; 
Swiftly  their  hands  the  trailers  sweep  ; 
The  vines  are  stripped  and  the  song  is  sung, 
A  joyous  labor  for  old  and  young  ; 
For  the  blithe  children,  gleaning  behind 
The  women,  marvellous  treasures  find. 


From  the  workers  a  maiden  parts  : 

The  baskets  at  her  waistband  shine 

With  berries  that  look  like  bleeding  hearts 

Of  a  hundred  lovers  at  her  shrine  ; 

No  Eastern  girl  were  girdled  so  well 

With  silken  belt  and  silver  bell. 

Her  slender  form  is  tall  and  strong ; 

Her  voice  is  the  sweetest  in  the  song  ; 

Her  brown  hair,  fit  to  wear  a  crown, 

Loose  from  its  bonnet  ripples  down. 

Toward  the  crates,  that  lie  in  the  shade 

Of  the  chestnut  copse  at  the  edge  of  the  glade, 

She  moves  from  her  mates,  through  happy  rows 

Of  the  children  loving  her  as  she  goes. 

Alice,  our  Alice .'  one  and  all, 

Striving  to  stay  her  footsteps,  call 

(For  children  with  skilful  choice  dispense 

The  largesse  of  their  innocence  ) ; 

But  on,  with  a  sister's  smile,  she  moves 

Into  the  darkness  of  the  groves, 

And  deftly,  daintily,  one  by  one, 

Shelters  her  baskets  from  the  sun, 

Under  the  network,  fresh  and  cool, 

Of  lily-leaves  from  the  crystal  pool. 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 


107 


7- 

Turning  her  violet  eyes,  their  rays 
Glistened  full  in  the  young  man's  gaze  ; 
And  each  at  each,  for  a  moment's  space, 
Looked  with  a  diffident  surprise. 
"  Heaven !  "  thought  Hugh,  "  what  artless  grace 
That  laborer's  daughter  glorifies  ! 
I  never  saw  a  fairer  face, 
I  never  heard  a  sweeter  voice  ; 
And  oh  !  were  she  my  father's  choice, 
My  father's  choice  and  mine  were  one 
In  the  strawberry-field  and  morning  sun." 


V. 


LOVE,  from  that  summer  morn 
Melting  the  souls  of  these  two  ; 
Love,  which  some  of  you  know 
Who  read  this  poem  to-day  — 
Is  it  the  same  desire, 
The  strong,  ineffable  joy, 
Which  Jacob  and  Rachel  felt, 
When  he  served  her  father  long  years, 
And  the  years  were  swift  as  days  — 
So  great  was  the  love  he  bore  ? 
Race,  advancing  with  time, 
Growing  in  thought  and  deed, 
Mastering  land  and  sea, 
Say,  does  the  heart  advance, 
Are  its  passions  more  pure  and  strong  ? 
They,  like  Nature,  remain, 
No  more  and  no  less  than  of  yore. 
Whoso  conque-s  the  earth, 


IO3  ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 

Winning  its  riches  and  fame, 
Comes  to  the  evening  at  last, 
The  sunset  of  threescore  years, 
Confessing  that  Love  was  real, 
All  the  rest  was  a  dream  ! 
The  sum  of  his  gains  is  dross  ; 
The  song  in  his  praise  is  mute  ; 
The  wreath  of  his  laurels  fades  : 
But  the  kiss  of  his  early  love 
Still  burns  on  his  trembling  lip, 
The  spirit  of  one  he  loved 
Hallows  his  dreams  at  night. 
A  little  while,  and  the  scenes 
Of  the  play  of  Life  are  closed  ; 
Come,  let  us  rest  an  hour, 
And  by  the  pleasant  streams, 
Under  the  fresh,  green  trees, 
Let  us  walk  hand  in  hand, 
And  think  of  the  days  that  were. 


VI. 


ON  river  and  height  and  salty  moors  the  haze  of 
autumn  fell, 
And  the  cloud  of  a  troubled  joy  enwrapt  the  face  of 

Hugh  as  well,  — 

The  spell  of  a  secret  haunt  that  far  from  home  his  foot- 
steps drew ; 

A   love  which   over  the  brow  of  youth  the  mask  of 
manhood  threw. 


ALICE    OF  MONMOUTH. 


I09 


Birds  of  the  air  to  the  father,  at  length,  the  common 
rumor  brought : 

"Your  son,"  they  sang,  "in  the  cunning  toils  of  a  rus- 
tic lass  is  caught  !  " 

"  A  fit  betrothal,"  the  lawyer  said,  "  must  make  these 
follies  cease  ; 

Which  shall  it  be  ?  —  the  banker's  ward  ? —  Edith,  the 
judge's  niece  ?  " 

"  Father,  I  pray  "  —  said  Hugh.  "  O  yes  !  "  out-leapt 
the  other's  mood, 

"  I  hear  of  your  wanton  loiterings  ;  they  ill  become 
your  blood  ! 

If  you  hold  our  name  at  such  light  worth,  forbear  to 
darken  the  life 

Of  this  Alice  Dale  "  —  "  No,  Alice  Van  Ghelt !  fa- 
ther, she  is  my  wife." 

2. 

Worldlings,  who  say  the  eagle  should  mate  with  eagle, 

after  his  kind, 
Nor  have  learned  from  what  far  and  diverse  cliffs  the 

twain  each  other  find, 
Yours  is  the  old,  old  story,  of  age  forgetting  its  wiser 

youth  ; 
Of  eyes  which  are  keen  for  others'  good  and  blind  to 

an  inward  truth. 

But  the  pride  which  closed  the  father's  doors  swelled 

in  the  young  man's  veins, 
And  he  led  his  bride,  in  the  sight  of  all,  through  the 

pleasant  Monmouth  lanes, 
To  the  little  farm  his  grandsire  gave,  years  since,  for  a 

birthday  gift : 


1IO  ALICE   OF  MONMO UTH. 

Unto  such  havens  unforeseen  the  barks  of  our  fortune 
drift ! 

There,  for  a  happy  pastoral  year,  he  tilled  the  teeming 
field, 

Scattered  the  marl  above  his  land,  and  gathered  the 
orchard's  yield ; 

And  Alice,  in  fair  and  simple  guise,  kissed  him  at  even- 
fall  ; 

And  her  face  was  to  him  an  angel's  face,  and  love  was 
all  in  all. 

—  What  is  this  light  in  the  southern  sky,  painting  a 
red  alarm  ? 

What  is  this  trumpet  call,  which  sounds  through  peace- 
ful village  and  farm,  — 

Jarring  the  sweet  idyllic  rest,  stilling  the  children's 
throng, 

Hushing  the  cricket  on  the  hearth,  and  the  lovers' 
evening  song  ? 

VII. 


AR  !    war  !  war  ! 
Manning  efforts  on  land  and  ships  for  sea ; 
Innumerous  lips  that  speak  the  righteous  wrath 
Of  days  which  have  been  and  again  may  be ; 
Flashing  of  tender  eyes  disdaining  tears  ; 
A  pause  of  men  with  indrawn  breath, 
Knowing  it  awful  for  the  people's  will 
Thus,  thus  to  end  the  mellow  years 
Of  harvest,  growth,  prosperity, 
And  bring  the  years  of  famine,  fire,  and  death, 
Though  fear  and  a  nation's  shame  are  more  awful  still. 


ALICE   OF  MO N MOUTH.  j  j  i 

2. 

War  !  war  !  war  ! 

A  thundercloud  in  the  South  in  the  early  Spring,  — 
The  launch  of  a  thunderbolt ;  and  then, 
With  one  red  flare,  the  lightning  stretched  its  wing, 
And  a  rolling  echo  roused  a  million  men  ! 
Then  the  ploughman  left  his  field  ; 
The  smith,  at  his  clanging  forge, 
Forged  him  a  sword  to  wield. 
From  meadow,  and  mountain-gorge, 
And  the  Western  plains,  they  came, 
Fronting  the  storm  and  flame. 
War  !  war  !  war  ! 
Heaven  aid  the  right ! 

God  nerve  the  hero's  arm  in  the  fearful  fight  ! 
God  send  the  women  sleep,  in  the  long,  long  night, 
When  the  breasts  on  whose  strength  they  leaned  shall 
heave  no  more  ! 

VIII. 


SPAKE  each  mother  to  her  son, 
Ere  an  ancient  field  was  won  : 
"  Spartan,  who  me  your  mother  call, 
Our  country  is  mother  of  us  all ; 
In  her  you  breathe,  and  move,  and  are. 
In  peace,  for  her  to  live  —  in  war, 
For  her  to  die  —  is,  gloriously, 
A  patriot  to  live  and  die  !  " 


The  times  are  now  as  grand  as  then 
With  dauntless  women,  earnest  men  ; 


H2  ALICE   OF  MO N MOUTH. 

For  thus  the  mothers  whom  we  know 
Bade  their  sons  to  battle  go  ; 
And,  with  a  smile,  the  loyal  North 
Sent  her  million  freemen  forth. 


3- 

"  What  men  should  stronger-hearted  be 
Than  we,  who  dwell  by  the  open  sea, 
Tilling  the  lands  our  fathers  won 
In  battle  on  the  Monmouth  Plains  ? 
Ah  !  a  memory  remains, 
Telling  us  what  they  have  done, 
Teaching  us  what  we  should  do. 
Let  us  send  our  rightful  share,  — 
Hard-handed  yeomen,  horsemen  rare, 
A  hundred  riders  fleet  and  true." 

4- 

A  hundred  horsemen,  led  by  Hugh  : 
"  Were  he  still  here,"  their  captain  thought, 
"  The  brave  old  man  who  trained  my  youth, 
What  a  leader  he  would  make 
Where  the  battle's  topmost  billows  break  ! 
The  crimes  which  brought  our  land  to  ruth, 
How  in  his  soul  they  would  have  wrought  ! 
God  help  me,  no  deed  of  mine  shall  shame 
The  honor  of  my  grandsire's  name  ; 
And  my  father  shall  see  how  pure  and  good 
Runs  in  these  veins  the  olden  blood." 

5- 

Shore  and  inland  their  men  have  sent : 
Away,  to  the  mounted  regiment, 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH.  I 

The  silver-hazed  Potomac  heights, 
The  circling  raids,  the  hundred  fights, 
The  booth,  the  bivouac,  the  tent. 
Away,  from  the  happy  Monmouth  farms, 
To  noontide  marches,  night  alarms, 
Death  in  the  shadowy  oaken  glades, 
Emptied  saddles,  broken  blades, — 
All  the  turmoil  that  soldiers  know 
Who  gallop  to  meet  a  mortal  foe, 
Some  to  conquer,  some  to  fall : 
War  hath  its  chances  for  one  and  all. 

6. 

Heroes,  who  render  up  their  lives 
On  the  country's  fiery  altar-stone  — 
They  do  not  offer  themselves  alone. 
What  shall  become  of  the  soldiers'  wives  ? 
They  stay  behind  in  the  lonely  cots, 
Weeding  the  humble  garden-plots  ; 
Some  to  speed  the  needle  and  thread, 
For  the  soldiers'  children  must  be  fed  ; 
All  to  sigh,  through  the  toilsome  day, 
And  at  night  teach  lisping  lips  to  pray 
For  the  fathers  marching  far  away. 


IX. 


and  flame  on  the  dark  frontier, 
^  —  Veiling  the  hosts  embattled  there  : 
Peace,  and  a  boding  stillness,  here, 
Where  the  wives  at  home  repeat  their  prayer. 


|_  ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 

2. 

The  weary  August  days  are  long ; 
The  locusts  sing  a  plaintive  song, 
The  cattle  miss  their  master's  call 
When  they  see  the  sunset  shadows  fall. 
The  youthful  mistress,  at  even-tide, 
Stands  by  the  cedarn  wicket's  side, 
With  both  hands  pushing  from  the  front 
Her  hair,  as  those  who  listen  are  wont  ; 
Gazing  toward  the  unknown  South, 
While  silent  whispers  part  her  mouth  : 

3- 

"  O,  if  a  woman  could  only  find 

Other  work  than  to  wait  behind, 

Through  midnight  dew  and  noonday  drouth,  — 

To  wait  behind,  and  fear,  and  pray  ! 

O,  if  a  soldier's  wife  could  say,  — 

'  Where  thou  goest,  I  will  go  ; 

Kiss  thee  ere  thou  meet'st  the  foe  ; 

Where  thou  lodgest,  worst  or  best, 

Share  and  soothe  thy  broken  rest ! ' 

—  Alas,  to  stifle  her  pain,  and  wait, 

This  was  ever  a  woman's  fate  ! 

But  the  lonely  hours  at  least  may  be 

Passed  a  little  nearer  thee, 

And  the  city  thou  guardest  with  thy  life 

Thou  'It  guard  more  fondly  for  holding  thy  wife." 

4- 

Ah,  tender  heart  of  woman  leal, 
Supple  as  wax  and  strong  as  steel ! 
Thousands  as  faithful  and  as  lone, 
Following  each  some  dearest  one, 


ALICE   OF  MON MOUTH.  I 

Found  in  those  early  months  a  home 

Under  the  brightness  of  that  dome 

Whose  argent  arches  for  aye  enfold 

The  hopes  of  a  people  in  their  hold,  — 

Irradiate,  in  the  sight  of  all 

Who  guard  the  Capital's  outer  wall. 

Lastly  came  one,  amid  the  rest, 

Whose  form  a  sunburnt  soldier  prest, 

As  lovers  embrace  in  respite  lent 

From  unfulfilled  imprisonment. 

And  Alice  found  a  new  content : 

Dearer  for  perils  that  had  been 

Were  short-lived  meetings,  far  between  ; 

Better,  for  dangers  yet  to  be, 

The  moments  she  still  his  face  could  see. 

These,  for  the  pure  and  loving  wife, 

Were  the  silver  bars  that  marked  her  life, 

That  numbered  the  days  melodiously  ; 

While,  through  all  noble  daring,  Hugh 

From  a  Captain  to  a  Colonel  grew, 

And  his  praises  sweetened  every  tongue 

That  reached  her  ear,  —  for  old  and  young 

Gave  him  the  gallant  leader's  due. 


X. 


T7  LIGHT  of  a  meteor  through  the  sky, 

-*-      Scattering  firebrands,  arrows,  and  death, 

A  baleful  year,  that  hurtled  by 

While  ancient  kingdoms  held  their  breath. 


H6  ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 


The  Capital  grew  aghast  with  sights 
Flashed  from  the  lurid  river-heights, 
Full  of  the  fearful  things  sent  down, 
By  demons  haunting  the  middle  air, 
Into  the  hot,  beleaguered  town,  — 
All  woful  sights  and  sounds,  which  seem 
The  fantasy  of  a  sickly  dream  : 
Crowded  wickedness  everywhere ; 
Everywhere  a  stifled  sense 
Of  the  noonday-striding  pestilence  ; 
Every  church,  from  wall  to  wall, 
A  closely-mattressed  hospital ; 
And  ah  !  our  bleeding  heroes,  brought 
From  smouldering  fields  so  vainly  fought, 
Filling  each  place  where  a  man  could  lie 
To  gasp  a  dying  wish  —  and  die  ; 
While  the  sombre  sky,  relentlessly, 
Covered  the  town  with  a  funeral-pall, 
A  death-damp,  trickling  funeral-pall. 

3- 

Always  the  dust  and  mire ;  the  sound 
Of  the  rumbling  wagon's  ceaseless  round, 
The  cannon  jarring  the  trampled  ground. 
The  sad,  unvarying  picture  wrought 
Upon  the  pitying  woman's  heart 
Of  Alice,  the  Colonel's  wife,  and  taught 
Her  spirit  to  choose  the  better  part,  — 
The  labor  of  loving  angels,  sent 
To  men  in  their  sore  encompassment. 
Daily  her  gentle  steps  were  bent 
Through  the  thin  pathways  which  divide 
The  patient  sufferers,  side  from  side, 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 


117 


In  dolorous  wards,  where  Death  and  Life 

Wage  their  silent,  endless  strife  ; 

And  she  gave  to  all  her  soothing  words, 

Sweet  as  the  songs  of  homestead  birds. 

Sometimes  that  utterance  musical 

On  the  soldier's  failing  sense  would  fall 

Seeming,  almost,  a  prelude  given 

Of  whispers  that  calm  the  air  of  Heaven  ; 

While  her  white  hand,  moistening  his  poor  lips 

With  the  draught  which  slakeless  fever  sips, 

Pointed  him  to  that  fount  above,  — 

River  of  water  of  life  and  love,  — 

Stream  without  price,  of  whose  purity 

Whoever  thirsteth  may  freely  buy. 

4- 

How  many  —  whom  in  their  mortal  pain 
She  tended  —  't  was  given  her  to  gain, 
Through  Him  who  died  upon  the  rood, 
For  that  divine  beatitude, 
Who  of  us  all  can  ever  know 
Till  the  golden  books  their  records  show  ? 
But  she  saw  their  dying  faces  light, 
And  felt  a  rapture  in  the  sight. 
And  many  a  sufferer's  earthly  life 
Thanked  for  new  strength  the  Colonel's  wife  ; 
Many  a  soldier  turned  his  head, 
Watching  her  pass  his  narrow  bed, 
Or,  haply,  his  feeble  frame  would  raise, 
As  the  dim  lamp  her  form  revealed  ; 
And,  like  the  children  in  the  field, 
(For  soldiers  like  little  ones  become,  — 
As  simple  in  heart,  as  frolicsome,) 
One  and  another  breathed  her  name, 
Blessing  her  as  she  went  and  came. 


H8  ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 

5- 

So,  through  all  actions  pure  and  good, 
Unknowing  evil,  shame,  or  fear, 
She  grew  to  perfect  ladyhood,  — 
Unwittingly  the  mate  and  peer 
Of  the  proudest  of  her  husband's  blood. 


XI. 


LIKE  an  affluent,  royal  town,  the  summer  camps 
Of  a  hundred  thousand  men  are  stretched  away. 
At  night,  like  multitudinous  city  lamps, 
Their  numberless  watch-fires  beacon,  clear  and  still, 
And  a  glory  beams  from  the  zenith  lit 
With  lurid  vapors  that  over  its  star-lights  flit ; 
But  wreaths  of  opaline  cloud  o'erhang,  by  day, 
The  crystal-pointed  tents,  from  hill  to  hill, 
From  vale  to  vale  —  until 

The  heavens  on  endless  peaks  their  curtain  lay. 
A  magical  city  !  spread  to-night 
On  hills  which  slope  within  our  sight : 
To-morrow,  as  at  the  waving  of  a  wand, 
Tents,  guidons,  bannerols  are  moved  afar, — 
Rising  elsewhere,  as  rises  a  morning-star, 
Or  the  dream  of  Aladdin's  palace  in  fairy-land. 

2. 

Camp  after  camp,  like  marble  square  on  square ; 
Street  following  street,  with  many  a  park  between  ; 
Bright  bayonet-sparkles  in  the  tremulous  air  ; 
Far-fading,  purple  smoke  above  their  sheen  ; 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH.  j  r 

Green  central  fields  with  flags  like  flowers  abloom ; 
And,  all  about,  close-ordered,  populous  life  : 
But  here  no  festering  trade,  no  civic  strife, 
Only  the  blue-clad  soldiers  everywhere, 
Waiting  to-morrow's  victory  or  doom,  — 
Men  of  the  hour,  to  whom  these  pictures  seem, 
Like  school-boy  thoughts,  half  real,  half  a  dream. 

3- 

Camps  of  the  cavalry,  apart, 
Are  pitched  with  nicest  art 
On  hilly  suburbs  where  old  forests  grow. 
Here,  by  itself,  one  glimmers  through  the  pines,  ~ 
One  whose  high-hearted  chief  we  know  : 
A  thousand  men  leap  when  his  bugles  blow ; 
A  thousand  horses  curvet  at  his  lines, 
Pawing  the  turf ;  among  them  come  and  go 
The  jacketed  troopers,  changed  by  wind  and  rain, 
Storm,  raid,  and  skirmish,  sunshine,  midnight  dew, 
To  bronze'd  men  who  never  ride  in  vain. 

4- 

In  the  great  wall-tent  at  the  head  of  the  square, 
The  Colonel  hangs  his  sword,  and  there 
Huge  logs  burn  high  in  front  at  the  close  of  the  day  ; 
And  the  captains  gather  ere  the  long  tattoo, 
While  the  banded  buglers  play  ; 
Then  come  the  tales  of  home  and  the  troopers'  song. 
Clear  over  the  distant  outposts  float  the  notes, 
And  the  lone  vidette  to  catch  them  listens  long ; 
And  the  officer  of  the  guard,  upon  his  round, 
Pauses,  to  hear  the  sound 
Of  the  chiming  chorus  poured  from  a  score  of  throats ; 


120  ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 


5- 
CAVALRY  SONG. 

Our  good  steeds  snuff  the  evening  air, 

Our  pulses  with  their  purpose  tingle  ; 
The  foeman's  fires  are  twinkling  there  ; 
He  leaps  to  hear  our  sabres  jingle  ! 

HALT! 

Each  carbine  sends  its  whizzing  ball : 
Now,  cling  !  clang  !  forward  all, 
Into  the  fight ! 

Dash  on  beneath  the  smoking  dome, 

Through  level  lightnings  gallop  nearer  ! 
One  look  to  Heaven  !     No  thoughts  of  home 
The  guidons  that  we  bear  are  dearer. 

CHARGE ! 

Cling  !  clang  !  forward  all ! 
Heaven  help  those  whose  horses  fall ! 
Cut  left  and  right ! 

They  flee  before  our  fierce  attack  ! 

They  fall,  they  spread  in  broken  surges  ! 
Now,  comrades,  bear  our  wounded  back, 
And  leave  the  foeman  to  his  dirges. 

WHEEL  ! 

The  bugles  sound  the  swift  recall : 
Cling  !  clang  !  backward  all ! 
Home,  and  good  night ! 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH.  I2i 


XII. 


WHEN  April  rains  and  the  great  spring-tide 
Cover  the  lowlands  far  and  wide, 
And  eastern  winds  blow  somewhat  harsh 
Over  the  salt  and  mildewed  marsh, 
Then  the  grasses  take  deeper  root, 
Sucking,  athirst  and  resolute  ; 
And  when  the  waters  eddy  away, 
Flowing  in  trenches  to  Newark  Bay, 
The  fibrous  blades  grow  rank  and  tall, 
And  from  their  tops  the  reed-birds  call. 
Five  miles  in  width  the  moor  is  spread  ; 
Two  broad  rivers  its  borders  thread  ; 
The  schooners  which  up  their  channels  pass 
Seem  to  be  sailing  in  the  grass, 
Save  as  they  rise  with  the  moon-drawn  sea, 
Twice  in  the  day,  continuously. 


Gray  with  an  inward  struggle  grown, 
The  brooding  lawyer,  Hermann  Van  Ghelt, 
Lived  at  the  mansion-house,  alone  ; 
But  a  chilling  cloud  at  his  bosom  felt, 
Like  the  fog  which  crept,  at  morn  and  night, 
Across  the  rivers  in  his  sight, 
And  rising,  left  the  moorland  plain 
Bare  and  spectral  and  cold  again. 
He  saw  the  one  tall  hill,  which  stood 
Huge  with  its  quarry  and  gloaming  wood, 
And  the  creeping  engines,  as  they  hist 
6 


122  ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 

Through  the  dim  reaches  of  the  mist,  — 

Serpents,  with  ominous  eyes  aglow, 

Thridding  the  grasses  to  and  fro  ; 

And  he  thought  how  each  dark,  receding  train 

Carried  its  freight  of  joy  and  pain, 

On  toil's  adventure  and  fortune's  quest, 

To  the  troubled  city  of  unrest ; 

And  he  knew  that  under  the  desolate  pall 

Of  the  bleak  horizon,  skirting  all, 

The  burdened  ocean  heaved,  and  rolled 

Its  moaning  surges  manifold. 

3- 

Often  at  evening,  gazing  through 
The  eastward  windows  on  such  a  view, 
Its  sense  enwrapt  him  as  with  a  shroud  ; 
Often  at  noon,  in  the  city's  crowd, 
He  saw,  as  't  were  in  a  mystic  glass, 
Unbidden  faces  before  him  pass  : 
A  soldier,  with  eyes  unawed  and  mild 
As  the  eyes  of  one  who  was  his  child  ; 
A  woman's  visage,  like  that  which  blest 
A  year  of  his  better  years  the  best ; 
And  the  plea  of  a  voice,  remembered  well, 
Deep  in  his  secret  hearing  fell. 
And  as  week  by  week  its  records  brought 
Of  heroes  fallen  as  they  fought, 
There  little  by  little  awakened 
In  the  lawyer's  heart  a  shapeless  dread, 
A  fear  of  the  tidings  which  of  all 
On  ear  and  spirit  heaviest  fall,  — 
Changeless  sentence  of  mortal  fate, 
Freezing  the  marrow  with  —  Too  Late ! 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 


XIII. 


THUS,  —  when  ended  the  morning  tramp, 
And  the  regiment  came  back  to  camp, 
And  the  Colonel,  breathing  hard  with  pain, 
Was  carried  within  the  lines  again,  — 
Thus  a  Color- Sergeant  told 
The  story  of  that  skirmish  bold  : 

2. 

"  T  was  an  hour  past  midnightj  twelve  hours  ago,  — 
We  were  all  asleep,  you  know, 
Save  the  officer  on  his  rounds, 
And  the  guard -relief,  — when  sounds 
The  signal-gun  !  once  —  twice  — 
Thrice  !  and  then,  in  a  trice, 
The  long  assembly-call  rang  sharp  and  clear, 
Till  '  Boots  and  Saddles  '  made  us  scamper  like  mice. 
No  time  to  waste 

In  asking  whether  a  fight  was  near ; 
Over  the  horses  went  their  traps  in  haste  ; 
Not  ten  minutes  had  past 
Ere  we  stood  in  marching  gear, 
And  the  call  of  the  roll  was  followed  by  orders  fast : 
'  Prepare  to  mount ! ' 

'  Mount ! '  —  and  the  company  ranks  were  made  ; 
Then  in  each  rank,  by  fours,  we  took  the  count, 
And  the  head  of  the  column  wheeled  for  the  long  parade. 

3- 

"  There,  on  the  beaten  ground, 
The  regiment  formed  from  right  to  left ; 


!24  ALICE    OF  MONMOUTH. 

Our  Colonel,  straight  in  his  saddle,  looked  around, 

Reining  the  stallion  in,  that  felt  the  heft 

Of  his  rider,  and  stamped  his  foot,  and  wanted  to  dance. 

At  last  the  order  came  : 

'  By  twos  :  forward,  march  ! '  —  and  the  same 

From  each  officer  in  advance  ; 

And,  as  the  rear-guard  left  the  spot, 

We  broke  into  the  even  trot. 

4- 

"  '  Trot,  march  ! '  —  two  by  two, 
In  the  dust  and  in  the  dew, 
Roads  and  open  meadows  through. 
Steadily  we  kept  the  tune 
Underneath  the  stars  and  moon. 
None,  except  the  Colonel,  knew 
What  our  orders  were  to  do ; 
Whether  on  a  forage-raid 
We  were  tramping,  boot  and  blade, 
Or  a  close  reconnoissance 
Ere  the  army  should  advance  ; 
One  thing  certain,  we  were  bound 
Straight  for  Stuart's  camping-ground. 
Plunging  into  forest-shade, 
Well  we  knew  each  glen  and  glade  ! 
Sweet  they  smelled,  the  pine  and  oak, 
And  of  home  my  comrade  spoke. 
Tramp,  tramp,  out  again, 
Sheer  across  the  ragged  plain, 
Where  the  moonbeams  glaze  our  steel 
And  the  fresher  air  we  feel. 
Thus  a  triple  league,  and  more, 
Till  behind  us  spreads  the  gray, 
Pallid  light  of  breaking  day, 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH.  I25 

And  on  cloudy  hills,  before, 
Rebel  camp-fires  smoke  away. 
Hard  by  yonder  clump  of  pines 
We  should  touch  the  rebel  lines : 
'  Walk,  march  ! '  and,  softly  now, 
Gain  yon  hillock's  westward  brow. 

5- 

" '  Halt ! '  and  '  Right  into  line  ! '  —  There  on  the  ridge 
In  battle-order  we  let  the  horses  breathe  ; 
The  Colonel  raised  his  glass  and  scanned  the  bridge, 
The  tents  on  the  bank  beyond,  the  stream  beneath. 
Just  then  the  sun  first  broke  from  the  redder  east, 
And  their  pickets  saw  five  hundred  of  us,  at  least, 
Stretched  like  a  dark  stockade  against  the  sky ; 
We  heard  their  long-roll  clamor  loud  and  nigh  : 
In  half  a  minute  a  rumbling  battery  whirled 
To  a  mound  in  front,  unlimbering  with  a  will, 
And  a  twelve-pound  solid  shot  came  right  along, 
Singing  a  devilish  morning-song, 
And   touched  my  comrade's  leg,  and   the   poor  boy 

curled 

And  dropt  to  the  turf,  holding  his  bridle  still. 
Well,  we  moved  out  of  range,  —  were  wheeling  round, 
I  think,  for  the  Colonel  had  taken  his  look  at  their 

ground, 

(Thus  he  was  ordered,  it  seems,  and  nothing  more  : 
Hardly  worth  coming  at  midnight  for  !) 
When,  over  the  bridge,  a  troop  of  the  enemy's  horse 
Dashed  out  upon  our  course, 
Giving  us  hope  of  a  tussle  to  warm  our  blood. 
Then  we  cheered,  to  a  man,  that  our  early  call 
Had  n't  been  sounded  for  nothing,  after  all ; 
And  halting,  to  wait  their  movements,  the  column  stood. 


I26  ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 

6. 

"Then  into  squadrons  we  saw  their  ranks  enlarge, 
And  slow  and  steady  they  moved  to  the  charge, 
Shaking  the  ground  as  they  came  in  carbine-range. 
'  Front  into  line  !  March !  Halt !  Front ! ' 
Our  Colonel  cried  ;  and  in  squadrons,  to  meet  the  brunt, 
We  too  from  the  walk  to  the  trot  our  paces  change : 
'  Gallop,  march  ! '  —  and,  hot  for  the  fray, 
Pistols  and  sabres  drawn,  we  canter  away. 

7- 

"  Twenty  rods  over  the  slippery  clover 
We  galloped  as  gayly  as  lady  and  lover  ; 
Held  the  reins  lightly,  our  good  weapons  tightly, 
Five  solid  squadrons  all  shining  and  sightly  ; 
Not  too  fast,  half  the  strength  of  our  brave  steeds  to 

wasten, 
Not  too   slow,  for  the  warmth  of  their  fire   made  us 

hasten, 

As  it  came  with  a  rattle  and  opened  the  battle, 
Tumbling  from  saddles  ten  fellows  of  mettle. 
So  the  distance  grew  shorter,  their  sabres  shone  broader; 
Then  the  bugle's  wild  blare  and  the  Colonel's  loud 

order,  — 

"  CHARGE  ! "  and  we  sprang,  while  the  far  echo  rang, 
And  their  bullets,  like  bees,  in  our  ears  fiercely  sang. 
Forward  we  strode  to  pay  what  we  owed, 
Right  at  the  head  of  their  column  we  rode  ; 
Together  we  dashed,  and  the  air  reeled  and  flashed  ; 
Stirrups,  sabres,  and  scabbards  all  shattered  and  crashed 
As  we  cut  in  and  out,  right  and  left,  all  about, 
Hand  to  hand,  blow  for  blow,  shot  for  shot,  shout  for 
shout, 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH.  i2J 

Till  the  earth  seemed  to  boil  with  the  heat  of  our  toil. 

But  in  less  than  five  minutes  we  felt  them  recoil, 

Heard  their  shrill  rally  sound,  and,  like  hares  from  the 
hound, 

Each  ran  for  himself :  one  and  all  fled  the  ground  ! 

Then  we  goaded  them  up  to  their  guns,  where  they 
cowered, 

And  the  breeze  cleared  the  field  where  the  battle-cloud 
lowered. 

Threescore  of  them  lay,  to  teach  them  the  way 

Van  Ghelt  and  his  rangers  their  compliments  pay. 

But  a  plenty,  I  swear,  of  our  saddles  were  bare  ; 

Friend  and  foe,  horse  and  rider,  lay  sprawled  every- 
where : 

'T  was  hard  hitting,  you  see,  Sir,  that  gained  us  the 
day! 


"  Yes,  they  too  had  their  say  before  they  fled, 

And  the  loss  of  our  Colonel  is  worse  than  all  the  rest. 

One  of  their  captains  aimed  at  him,  as  he  led 

The  foremost  charge  —  I  shot  the  rascal  dead, 

But  the  Colonel  fell,  with  a  bullet  through  his  breast. 

We  lifted  him  from  the  mire,  when  the  field  was  won, 

And  their  captured  colors  shaded  him  from  the  sun 

In  the  farmer's  wagon  we  took  for  his  homeward  ride ; 

But  he  never  said  a  word,  nor  opened  his  eyes, 

Till  we  reached  the  camp.    In  yon  hospital  tent  he  lies, 

And  his  poor  young  wife  will  come  to  watch  by  his 

side. 

The  surgeon  has  n't  found  the  bullet,  as  yet, 
But  he  says  it 's  a  mortal  wound.     Where  will  you  get 
Another  such  man  to  lead  us,  if  he  dies  ?  " 


I28  ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 


XIV. 


O  PRUNG  was  the  bow  at  last ; 

^-J  And  the  barbed  and  pointed  dart, 

Keen  with  stings  of  the  past, 

Barbed  with  a  vain  remorse, 

Clove  for  itself  a  course 

Straight  to  the  father's  heart ; 

And  a  lonely  wanderer  stood, 

Mazed  in  a  mist  of  thought, 

On  the  edge  of  a  field  of  blood. 

—  For  a  battle  had  been  fought, 

And  the  cavalry  skirmish  was  but  a  wild  prelude 

To  the  broader  carnage  that  heaped  a  field  in  vain  : 

A  terrible  battle  had  been  fought, 

Till  its  changeful  current  brought 

Tumultuous,  angry  surges  roaring  -back 

To  the  lines  where  our  army  had  lain. 

The  lawyer,  driven  hard  by  an  inward  pain, 

Was  crossing,  in  search  of  a  dying  son,  the  track 

Where  the  deluge  rose  and  fell,  and  its  stranded  wrack 

Had  sown  the  loathing  earth  with  human  slain. 

2. 

Friends  and  foes,  —  who  could  discover  which, 
As  they  marked  the  zigzag,  outer  ditch, 
Or  lay  so  cold  and  still  in  the  bush, 
Fallen  and  trampled  down  in  the  last  wild  rush  ? 
Then  the  shattered  forest-trees  ;  the  clearing  there 
Where  a  battery  stood  ;  dead  horses,  pawing  the  air 
With  horrible  upright  hoofs  ;  a  mangled  mass 
Of  wounded  and  stifled  men  in  the  low  morass ; 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 

And  the  long  trench  dug  in  haste  for  a  burial-pit, 
Whose  yawning  length  and  breadth  all  comers  fit. 


I29 


3- 

And  over  the  dreadful  precinct,  like  the  lights 
That  flit  through  graveyard  walks  in  dismal  nights, 
Men  with  lanterns  were  groping  among  the  dead, 
Holding  the  flame  to  every  hueless  face, 
And  bearing  those  whose  life  had  not  wholly  fled 
On  stretchers,  that  looked  like  biers,  from  the  ghastly 
place. 

4- 

The  air  above  seemed  heavy  with  errant  souls, 
Dense  with  ghosts  from  those  gory  forms  arisen,  — 
Each  rudely  driven  from  its  prison, 
'Mid  the  harsh  jar  of  rattling  musket-rolls, 
And  quivering  throes,  and  unexpected  force  ; 
In  helpless  waves  adrift  confusedly, 
Freighting  the  sombre  haze  without  resource. 
Through  all  there  trickled,  from  the  pitying  sky, 
An  infinite  mist  of  tears  upon  the  ground, 
Muffling  the  groans  of  anguish  with  its  sound. 

5- 

On  the  borders  of  such  a  land,  on  the  bounds  of  Death, 
The  stranger,  shuddering,  moved  as  one  who  saith  : 
"  God  !  what  a  doleful  clime,  a  drear  domain  !  " 
And  onward,  struggling  with  his  pain, 
Traversed  the  endless  camp-fires,  spark  by  spark, 
Past  sentinels  that  challenged  from  the  dark, 
Guided  through  camp  and  camp  to  one  long  tent 
Whose  ridge  a  flying  bolt  from  the  field  had  rent, 
Letting  the  midnight  mist,  the  battle  din, 
Fall  on  the  hundred  forms  that  writhed  within. 
6*  I 


130 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 


Beyond  the  gaunt  Zouave  at  the  nearest  cot, 

And  the  bugler  shot  in  the  arm,  who  lay  beside 

(Looking  down  at  the  wounded  spot 

Even  then,  for  all  the  pain,  with  boyish  pride), 

And  a  score  of  men,  with  blankets  opened  wide, 

Showing  the  gory  bandages  which  bound 

The  paths  of  many  a  deadly  wound, 

—  Over  all  these  the  stranger's  glances  sped 

To  one  low  stretcher,  at  whose  head 

A  woman,  bowed  and  brooding,  sate, 

As  sit  the  angels  of  our  fate, 

Who,  motionless,  our  births  and  deaths  await. 

He  whom  she  tended  moaned  and  tost, 

Restless,  as  some  laborious  vessel,  lost 

Close  to  the  port  for  which  we  saw  it  sail, 

Groans  in  the  long  perpetual  gale  ; 

But  she,  that  watched  the  storm,  forbore  to  weep. 

Sometimes  the  stranger  saw  her  move 

To  others,  who  also  with  their  anguish  strove  ; 

But  ever  again  her  constant  footsteps  turned 

To  one  who  made  sad  mutterings  in  his  sleep  ; 

Ever  she  listened  to  his  breathings  deep, 

Or  trimmed  the  midnight  lamp  that  feebly  burned. 


XV. 

T    EANINGher  face  on  her  hand 
J—<  She  sat  by  the  side  of  Hugh, 
Silently  watching  him  breathe, 
As  a  lily  curves  its  grace 
Over  the  broken  form 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

Of  the  twin  which  stood  by  its  side. 

A  glory  upon  her  head 

Trailed  from  the  light  above, 

Gilding  her  tranquil  hair. 

There,  as  she  sat  in  a  trance, 

Her  soul  flowed  through  the  past, 

As  a  river,  day  and  night, 

Passes  through  changeful  shores,  — 

Sees,  on  the  twofold  bank, 

Meadow  and  mossy  grange, 

Castles  on  hoary  crags, 

Forests,  and  fortressed  towns, 

And  shrinks  from  the  widening  bay, 

And  the  darkness  which  overhangs 

The  unknown,  limitless  sea. 

Was  it  a  troubled  dream, 

All  that  the  stream  of  her  life 

Had  mirrored  along  its  course  ? 

A1J  —  from  that  summer  morn 

When  she  seemed  to  meet  in  the  field 

One  whom  she  vowed  to  love, 

And  with  whom  she  wandered  thence, 

Leaving  the  home  of  her  youth  ? 

Were  they  visions  indeed,  — 

The  pillars  of  smoke  and  flame, 

The  sound  of  a  hundred  fights, 

The  grandeur,  and  ah  !  the  gloom, 

The  shadows  which  circled  her  now, 

And  the  wraith  of  the  one  she  loved 

Gliding  away  from  her  grasp, 

Vanishing  swiftly  and  sure  ? 

Yes,  it  was  all  a  dream ; 

And  the  strange,  sad  man,  who  moved 

To  the  other  side  of  the  couch, 


132 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 

Bending  over  it  long, 
Pressing  his  hand  on  his  heart, 
And  gazing,  anon,  in  her  eyes,  — 
He,  with  his  scanty  hair, 
And  pallid,  repentant  face, 
He,  too,  was  a  voiceless  dream, 
A  vision  like  all  the  rest ; 
He  with  the  rest  would  fade 
When  the  day  should  dawn  again, 
When  the  spectral  mist  of  night, 
Fused  with  the  golden  morn, 
Should  melt  in  the  eastern  sky. 


XVI. 


"  Q*  TE AD Y  !  forward  the  squadron  !  "  cries 

^    The  dying  soldier,  and  strives  amain 
To  rise  from  the  pillow  and  his  pain. 
Wild  and  wandering  are  his  eyes, 
Painting  once  more,  on  the  empty  air, 
The  wrathful  battle's  wavering  glare. 
"  Hugh  !  "  said  Alice,  and  checked  her  fear 
"  Speak  to  me,  Hugh  ;  your  father  is  here." 
"  Father  !  what  of  my  father  ?  he 
Is  anything  but  a  father  to  me  ; 
What  need  I  of  a  father,  when 
I  have  the  hearts  of  a  thousand  men  ?  " 
"  —  Alas,  Sir,  he  knows  not  me  nor  you  ! " 
And  with  caressing  words,  the  twain  — 
The  man  with  all  remorsefulness, 
The  woman  with  loving  tenderness  — 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 

Soothed  the  soldier  to'rest  anew, 
And,  as  the  madness  left  his  brain, 
Silently  watched  his  sleep  again. 


And  again  the  father  and  the  wife, 

Counting  the  precious  sands  of  life, 

Looked  each  askance,  with  those  subtle  eyes, 

That  probe  through  human  mysteries 

And  hidden  motives  fathom  well ; 

But  the  mild  regard  of  Alice  fell, 

Meeting  the  other's  contrite  glance, 

On  his  meek  and  furrowed  countenance, 

Scathed,  as  it  seemed,  with  troubled  thought : 

"  Surely,  good  angels  have  with  him  wrought," 

She  murmured,  and  halted,  even  across 

The  sorrowful  threshold  of  her  loss, 

To  pity  his  thin  and  changing  hair, 

And  her  heart  forgave  him,  unaware. 

3- 

And  he,  — who  saw  how  she  still  represt 
A  drear  foreboding  within  her  breast, 
And,  by  her  wifehood's  nearest  right, 
Ever  more  closely  through  the  night 
Clave  unto  him  whose  quickened  breath 
Came  like  a  waft  from  the  realm  of  Death,  — 
He  felt  what  a  secret,  powerful  tie 
Bound  them  in  one,  mysteriously. 
He  studied  her  features,  as  she  stood 
Lighting  the  shades  of  that  woful  place 
With  the  presence  of  her  womanhood, 
And  thought  —  as  the  dying  son  had  thought 
When  her  beauty  first  his  vision  caught  — 


133 


134 


ALICE   OF  MON MOUTH. 

tl  I  never  saw  a  fairer  face  ; 

I  never  heard  a  sweeter  voice  !  " 

And  a  sad  remembrance  travelled  fast 

Through  all  the  labyrinth  of  the  past, 

Till  he  said,  as  the  scales  fell  off  at  last, 

"  How  could  I  blame  him  for  his  choice  ?  " 

Then  he  looked  upon  the  sword,  which  lay 

At  the  headboard,  under  the  night-lamp's  ray  ; 

He  saw  the  coat,  the  stains,  the  dust, 

The  gilded  eagles  worn  with  rust, 

The  swarthy  forehead  and  matted  hair 

Of  the  strong,  brave  hero  lying  there  ; 

And  he  felt  how  gently  Hugh  held  command, — 

The  life  how  gallant,  the  death  how  grand  ; 

And  with  trembling  lips,  and  the  words  that  choke, 

And  the  tears  which  burn  the  cheek,  he  spoke  : 

"  Where  is  the  father  who  would  not  joy 

In  the  manhood  of  such  a  noble  boy  ? 

This  life,  which  had  being  through  my  own, 

Was  a  better  life  than  I  have  known  ; 

O  that  its  fairness  should  be  earth, 

Ere  I  could  prize  it  at  its  worth  !  " 

"  Too  late  !  too  late  !  "  —  he  made  his  moan  — 

"  I  find  a  daughter,  and  her  alone. 

He  deemed  you  worthy  to  bear  his  name, 

His  spotless  honor,  his  lasting  fame  : 

I,  who  have  wronged  you,  bid  you  live 

To  comfort  the  lonely  —  and  forgive." 

4- 

Dim  and  silvery  from  the  east 
The  infant  light  of  another  morn 
Over  the  stirring  camps  was  borne  ; 
But  the  soldier's  pulse  had  almost  ceased, 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 

And  there  crept  upon  his  brow  the  change  — 

Ah,  how  sudden  !  alas,  how  strange  ! 

Yet  again  his  eyelids  opened  wide, 

And  his  glances  moved  to  either  side, 

This  time  with  a  clear  intelligence 

Which  took  all  objects  in  its  sense, 

A  power  to  comprehend  the  whole 

Of  the  scene  that  girded  his  passing  soul. 

The  father,  who  saw  it,  slowly  drew 

Nearer  to  her  that  wept  anew, 

And  gathered  her  tenderly  in  his  hold,  — 

As  mortals  their  precious  things  enfold, 

Grasping  them  late  and  sure  ;  and  Hugh 

Gazed  on  the  two  a  space,  and  smiled 

With  the  look  he  wore  when  a  little  child,  — 

A  smile  of  pride  and  peace,  that  meant 

A  free  forgiveness,  a  full  content ; 

Then  his  clouding  sight  an  instant  clung 

To  the  flag  whose  stars  above  him  hung, 

And  his  blunted  senses  seemed  to  hear 

The  long  reveille  sounding  near  ; 

But  the  ringing  clarion  could  not  vie 

With  the  richer  notes  which  filled  his  ear, 

Nor  the  breaking  morn  with  that  brighter  sky. 


XVII. 


T  T  7EAR  no  armor,  timid  heart  ; 

*  ^     Fear  no  keen  misfortune's  dart, 
Want,  nor  scorn,  nor  secret  blow 
Dealt  thee  by  thy  mortal  foe. 


135 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 


Let  the  Fates  their  weapons  wield, 
For  a  wondrous  woven  shield 
Shall  be  given  thee,  erelong. 
Mesh  of  gold  were  not  so  strong ; 
Not  so  soft  were  silken  shred  ; 
Not  so  fine  the  spider's  thread 
Barring  the  enchanted  door 
In  that  tale  of  ancient  lore, 
Guarding,  silently  and  well, 
All  within  the  mystic  cell. 
Such  a  shield,  where'er  thou  art, 
Shall  be  thine,  O  wounded  heart ! 
From  the  ills  that  compass  thee 
Thou  behind  it  shalt  be  free  ; 
Envy,  slander,  malice,  all 
Shall  withdraw  them  from  thy  —  Pall. 


Build  no  house  with  patient  care, 
Fair  to  view,  and  strong  as  fair  ; 
Walled  with  noble  deeds'  renown  ; 
Shining  over  field  and  town, 
Seen  from  land  and  sea  afar, 
Proud  in  peace,  secure  in  war. 
For  the  moments  never  sleep, 
Building  thee  a  castle-keep,  — 
Proof  alike  'gainst  heat  and  cold, 
Earthly  sorrows  manifold, 
Sickness,  failure  of  thine  ends, 
And  the  falling  off  of  friends. 
Treason,  want,  dishonor,  wrong, 
None  of  these  shall  harm  thee  long. 


ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

Every  day  a  beam  is  made  ; 
Hour  by  hour  a  stone  is  laid. 
Back  the  cruellest  shall  fall 
From  the  warder  at  the  wall ; 
Foemen  shall  not  dare  to  tread 
On  the  ramparts  o'er  thy  head ; 
Dark,  triumphant  flags  shall  wave 
From  the  fastness  of  thy  —  Grave. 


XVIII. 

i. 

'""P HERE'S  an  hour,  at  the  fall  of  night,  when  the 
-*-       blissful  souls 

Of  those  who  were  dear  in  life  seem  close  at  hand  ; 
There 's  a  holy  midnight  hour,  when  we  speak  their 

names 

In  pauses  between  our  songs  on  the  trellised  porch  ; 
And  we  sing  the  hymns  which  they  loved,  and  almost 

know 
Their  phantoms   are  somewhere  with  us,  filling  the 

gaps, 

The  sorrowful  chasms  left  when  they  passed  away  ; .. 
And  we  seem,  in  the  hush  of  our  yearning  voices,  to 

hear 
Their  warm,  familiar  breathing  somewhere  near. 

2. 

At  such  an  hour,  —  when  again  the  autumn  haze 
Silvered  the  moors,  and  the  new  moon  peered  from  the 

west 
Over  the  blue  Passaic,  and  the  mansion  shone 


1^8  ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 

Clear  and  white  on  the  ridge  which  skirts  the  stream,  — 
At  the  twilight  hour  a  man  and  a  woman  sat 
On  the  open  porch,  in  the  garb  of  those  who  mourn. 
Father  and  daughter  they  seemed  ;  and  with  thoughtful 

eyes, 
Silent,  and  full  of  the  past,  they  watched  the  skies. 


XIX. 

SILENT  they  were,  not  sad;  for  the  sod  that  covers 
the  grave 

Of  those  we  have  given  to  fame  smells  not  of  the  hate- 
ful mould, 

But  of  roses  and  fragrant  ferns,  while  marvellous  im- 
mortelles 

Twine  in  glory  above,  and  their  graces  give  us  joy. 

Silent,  but  oh !  not  sad  :  for  the  babe  on  the  couch 
within 

Drank  at  the  mother's  breast,  till  the  current  of  life, 
outdrawn, 

Opened  inflowing  currents  of  faith  and  sweet  content ; 

And  the  gray-haired  man,  repenting  in  tears  the  foolish 
past, 

Had  seen  in  the  light  from  those  inscrutable  infant 
eyes, 

Fresh  from  the  unknown  world,  the  glimpses  which, 
long  ago, 

Gladdened  his  golden  youth,  and  had  found  his  soul  at 
peace. 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 


XX. 


LASTLY  the  moon  went  down  ;  like  burnished  steel 
The  infinite  ether  wrapt  the  crispy  air. 
Then,  arm  in  arm  on  the  terrace-walk,  the  pair 
Moved  in  that  still  communion  where  we  feel 
No  need  of  audible  questions  and  replies, 
But  mutual  pulses  all  our  thoughts  reveal ; 
And,  as  they  turned  to  leave  the  outer  night, 
Far  in  the  cloudless  North  a  radiant  sight 
Stayed  their  steps  for  a  while  and  held  their  eyes. 


There,  through  the  icy  mail  of  the  boreal  heaven, 
Two-edged  and  burning  swords  by  unseen  hands 
Were  thrust,  till  a  climbing  throng  its  path  had  riven 
Straight  from  the  Pole,  and,  over  seas  and  lands, 
Pushed  for  the  zenith,  while  from  East  to  West 
Flamed  many  a  towering  helm  and  gorgeous  crest  ; 
And  then,  a  rarer  pageant  than  the  rest, 
An  angrier  light  glared  from  the  southern  sky, 
As  if  the  austral  trumpets  made  reply, 
And  the  wrath  of  a  challenged  realm  had  swiftly  tost 
On  the  empyrean  the  flags  of  another  host,  — 
Pennons  with  or  and  scarlet  blazing  high, 
Crimson  and  orange  banners  proudly  crost ; 
While  through  the  environed  space,  that  lay  between 
Their  adverse  fronts,  the  ether  seemed  to  tremble, 
Shuddering  to  view  such  ruthless  foes  assemble, 
And  one  by  one  the  stars  withdrew  their  sheen. 


140 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 


3- 

The  two,  enrapt  with  such  a  vision,  saw 
Its  ominous  surges,  dense,  prismatic,  vast, 
Heaved  from  the  round  horizon  ;  and  in  awe, 
Musing  awhile,  were  silent.     Till  at  last 
The  younger,  fair  in  widow's  garments,  spoke  : 
"  See,  father,  how,  from  either  pole, 
The  deep,  innumerous  columns  roll ; 
As  if  the  angelic  tribes  their  concord  broke, 
And  the  fierce  war  that  scathes  our  land  had  spread 
Above,  and  the  very  skies  with  ire  were  red  !  " 


Even  as  she  spoke,  there  shone 

High  in  the  topmost  zenith  a  central  spark, 

A  luminous  cloud  that  glowed  against  the  dark ; 

Its  halo,  widening  toward  either  zone, 

Took  on  the  semblance  of  a  mystic  hand 

Stretched  from  an  unknown  height ;  and  lo  !  a  band 

Of  scintillant  jewels  twined  around  the  wrist, 

Sapphire  and  ruby,  opal,  amethyst, 

Turquoise,  and  diamond,  linked  with  flashing  joints. 

Its  wide  and  puissant  reach  began  to  clasp, 

In  countless  folds,  the  interclashing  points 

Of  outshot  light,  gathering  their  angry  hues  — 

North,  south,  east,  west  —  with  noiseless  grasp, 

By  some  divine,  resistless  law, 

Till  everywhere  the  wondering  watchers  saw 

A  thousand  colors  blend  and  interfuse, 

In  aureate  wave  on  wave  ascending  higher,  — 

Immeasurable,  white,  a  spotless  fire  ; 

And,  glory  circling  glory  there,  behold 

Gleams  of  the  heavenly  city  walled  with  gold  ! 


ALICE   OF  MONMOUTH. 


141 


"  Daughter,"  the  man  replied,  (his  face  was  bright 

With  the  effulgent  reflex  of  that  light,) 

"  The  time  shall  come,  by  merciful  Heaven  willed, 

When  these  celestial  omens  shall  be  fulfilled, 

Our  strife  be  closed  and  the  nation  purged  of  sin, 

And  a  pure  and  holier  union  shall  begin ; 

And  a  jarring  race  be  drawn,  throughout  the  land, 

Into  new  brotherhood  by  some  strong  hand  ; 

And  the  baneful  glow  and  splendor  of  war  shall  fade 

In  the  whiter  light  of  love,  that,  from  sea  to  sea, 

Shall  soften  the  rage  of  hosts  in  arms  arrayed, 

And  melt  into  share  and  shaft  each  battle-blade, 

And  brighten  the  hopes  of  a  people  great  and  free. 

But,  in  the  story  told  of  a  nation's  woes, 

Of  the  sacrifices  made  for  a  century's  fault, 

The  fames  of  fallen  heroes  shall  ever  shine, 

Serene,  and  high,  and  crystalline  as  those 

Fair  stars,  which  reappear  in  yonder  vault ; 

In  the  country's  heart  their  written  names  shall  be, 

Like  that  of  a  single  one  in  mine  and  thine. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS, 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


ALECTRYON. 

GREAT  Ares,  whose  tempestuous  godhood  found 
Delight  in  those  thick-tangled  solitudes 
Of  Hebrus,  watered  tracts  of  rugged  Thrace,  — 
Great  Ares,  scouring  the  Odrysian  wilds, 
There  met  Alectryon,  a  Thracian  boy, 
Stalwart  beyond  his  years,  and  swift  of  foot 
To  hunt  from  morn  till  eve  the  white-toothed  boar. 
"What  hero,"  said  the  war-God,  "joined  his  blood 
With  that  of  Haemian  nymph,  to  make  thy  form 
So  fair,  thy  soul  so  daring,  and  thy  thews 
So  lusty  for  the  contest  on  the  plains 
Wherein  the  fleet  Odrysas  tame  their  steeds  ? " 

From  that  time  forth  the  twain  together  chased 
The  boar,  or  made  their  coursers  cleave  the  breadth 
Of  yellow  Hebrus,  and,  through  vales  beyond, 
Drove  the  hot  leopard  foaming  to  his  lair. 
And  day  by  day  Alectryon  dearer  grew 

7  J 


I46  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

To  the  God's  restless  spirit,  till  from  Thrace 

He  bore  him,  even  to  Olympos  ;  there 

Before  him  set  immortal  food  and  wine, 

That  fairer  youth  and  lustier  strength  might  serve 

His  henchman  ;  bade  him  bear  his  arms,  and  cleanse 

The  crimsoned  burnish  of  his  brazen  car  : 

So  dwelt  the  Thracian  youth  among  the  Gods. 

There  came  a  day  when  Are's  left  at  rest 
His  spear,  and  smoothed  his  harmful,  unhelmed  brow, 
Calling  Alectryon  to  his  side,  and  said : 
"  The  shadow  of  Olympos  longer  falls 
Through  misty  valleys  of  the  lower  world  ; 
The  Earth  shall  be  at  peace  a  summer's  night ; 
Men  shall  have  calm,  and  the  unconquered  host 
Peopling  the  walls  of  Troas,  and  the  tribes 
Of  Greece,  shall  sleep  sweet  sleep  upon  their  arms  ; 
For  Aphrodite,  queen  of  light  and  love, 
Awaits  me,  blooming  in  the  House  of  Fire, 
Girt  with  the  cestus,  infinite  in  grace, 
Dearer  than  battle  and  the  joy  of  war : 
She,  for  whose  charms  I  would  renounce  the  sword 
Forever,  even  godhood,  would  she  wreathe 
My  brows  with  myrtle,  dwelling  far  from  Heaven. 
Hephaestos,  the  lame  cuckold,  unto  whose 
Misshapen  squalor  Zeus  hath  given  my  queen, 
To-night  seeks  Lemnos,  and  his  sooty  vault 
Roofed  by  the  roaring  surge  ;  wherein,  betimes, 
He  and  his  Cyclops  pound  the  ringing  iron, 
Forging  great  bolts  for  Zeus,  and  welding  mail, 
White-hot,  in  shapes  for  Heroes  and  the  Gods. 
Do  thou,  Alectryon,  faithful  to  my  trust, 
Hie  with  me  to  the  mystic  House  of  Fire. 
Therein,  with  wine  and  fruitage  of  her  isle, 


ALECTRYON. 

Sweet  odors,  and  all  rarest  sights  and  sounds, 
My  Paphian  mistress  shall  regale  us  twain. 
But  when  the  feast  is  over,  and  thou  seest 
Ares  and  Aphrodite  pass  beyond 
The  portals  of  that  chamber  whence  all  winds 
Of  love  flow  ever  toward  the  fourfold  Earth, 
Watch  by  the  entrance,  sleepless,  while  we  sleep  ; 
And  warn  us  ere  the  glimpses  of  the  Dawn  ; 
Lest  Helios,  the  spy,  may  peer  within 
Our  windows,  and  to  Lemnos  speed  apace, 
In  envy  clamoring  to  the  hobbling  smith, 
Hephaestos,  of  the  wrong  I  do  his  bed." 

Thus  Ares  ;  and  the  Thracian  boy,  well  pleased, 
Swore  to  be  faithful  to  his  trust,  and  liege 
To  her,  the  perfect  queen  of  light  and  love. 
So  saying,  they  reached  the  fiery,  brazen  gates, 
Encolumned  high  by  Heaven's  artisan, 
Hephaestos,  rough,  begrimed,  and  halt  of  foot,  — 
Yet  unto  whom  was  Aphrodite  given 
By  Zeus,  because  from  his  misshapen  hands 
All  shapely  things  found  being  ;  but  the  gift 
Brought  him  no  joyance,  nor  made  pure  his  fame, 
Like  those  devices  which  he  wrought  himself, 
Grim,  patient,  unbeloved. 

There  passed  they  in 
At  portals  of  the  high,  celestial  House, 
And  on  beyond  the  starry-golden  court, 
Through  amorous  hidden  ways,  and  winding  paths 
Set  round  with  splendors,  to  the  spangled  hall 
Of  secret  audience  for  noble  guests. 
Here  Charis  labored,  so  Hephasstos  bade, 
Moulding  the  room's  adornments  ;  here  she  built 


147 


I48  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Low  couches,  framed  in  ivory,  overlain 
With  skins  of  pard  and  panther,  and  the  fleece 
Of  sheep  which  graze  the  low  Hesperian  isles  ; 
And  in  the  midst  a  cedarn  table  spread, 
Whereon  the  loves  of  all  the  elder  Gods 
Were  wrought  in  gold  and  silver ;  and  the  light 
Of  quenchless  rubies  sparkled  over  all. 
Thus  far  came  Ares  and  Alectryon, 
First  leaving  shield  and  falchion  at  the  door, 
That  naught  of  violence  should  haunt  that  air 
Serene,  but  laughter-loving  peace,  and  joys 
The  meed  of  Gods,  once  given  men  to  know. 

Then,  from  her  dais  in  the  utmost  hall, 
Shone  toward  them  Aphrodite,  not  by  firm, 
Imperial  footfalls,  but  in  measureless 
Procession,  even  as,  wafted  by  her  doves, 
She  kissed  the  faces  of  the  yearning  waves 
From  Cyprus  to  the  high  Thessalian  mount, 
Claiming  her  throne  in  Heaven  ;  so  light  she  stept, 
Untended  by  her  Graces  ;  only  he, 
Eros,  th'  eternal  child,  with  welcomings 
Sprang  forward  to  Ares,  like  a  beam  of  light 
Flashed  from  a  coming  brightness,  ere  it  comes  ; 
And  the  ambrosial  mother  to  his  glee 
Joined  her  own  joy,  coy  as  she  glided  near 
Ares,  till  Ares  closed  her  in  his  arms 
An  instant,  with  the  perfect  love  of  Gods. 
And  the  wide  chamber  gleamed  with  their  delight, 
And  infinite  tinkling  laughters  rippled  through 
Far  halls,  wherefrom  no  boding  echoes  came. 

But  when  the  passion  of  their  meeting  fell 
To  dalliance,  the  mighty  lovers,  sunk 


ALECTRYON. 


I49 


Within  those  ivory  couches  golden-fleeced, 
Made  wassail  at  the  wondrous  board,  and  held 
Sweet  stolen  converse  till  the  middle  night. 
And  soulless  servitors  came  gliding  in, 
Handmaidens,  wrought  of  gold,  the  marvellous  work 
Of  lame  Hephaestos  ;  having  neither  will, 
Nor  voice,  yet  bearing  on  their  golden  trays 
Lush  fruits  and  Cyprian  wine,  and,  intermixt, 
Olympian  food  and  nectar,  earth  with  heaven. 
These  Eros  and  Alectryon  took  therefrom, 
And  placed  before  the  lovers  ;  and,  meanwhile, 
Melodious  breathings  from  unfingered  lutes, 
Warblings  from  unseen  nightingales,  and  songs 
From  lips  uncrimsoned,  scattered  music  round. 
So  fled  the  light-shod  moments,  hour  by  hour, 
While  the  grim  husband  clanged  upon  his  forge 
In  lurid  caverns  of  the  distant  isle, 
Unboding,  and  unheeded  in  his  home, 
Save  with  a  scornful  jest.     Till  now  the  crown 
Of  Artemis  shone  at  her  topmost  height : 
Then  rose  the  impassioned  lovers,  with  rapt  eyes 
Fixed  each  on  each,  and  passed  beyond  the  hall, 
Through  curtains  of  that  chamber  whence  all  winds 
Of  love  flow  ever  toward  the  fourfold  Earth  ; 
At  whose  dim  vestibule  Alectry6n 
Disposed  him,  mindful  of  his  master's  word  ; 
But  Eros,  heavy-eyed,  long  since  had  slept, 
Deep-muffled  in  the  softness  of  his  plumes. 
And  all  was  silence  in  the  House  of  Fire. 

Only  Alectryon,  through  brazen  bars, 
Watched  the  blue  East  for  Eos,  she  whose  torch 
Should  warn  him  of  the  coming  of  the  Sun. 
Even  thus  he  kept  his  vigils  ;  but,  ere  half 


I^O  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Her  silvery  downward  path  the  Huntress  knew, 

His  senses  by  that  rich  immortal  food 

Grew  numbed  with  languor.     Then  the  shadowy  hall's 

Deep  columns  glimmered,  interblent  with  dreams,  — 

Thick  forests,  running  waters,  darkling  caves 

Of  Thrace  ;  and  half  in  thought  he  grasped  the  bow  ; 

Hunted  once  more  within  his  native  wilds, 

Cheering  the  hounds  ;  until  before  his  eyes 

The  drapery  of  all  nearer  pictures  fell, 

And  his  limbs  drooped.     Whereat  the  imp  of  Sleep, 

Hypnos,  who  hid  him  at  the  outer  gate, 

Slid  in  with  silken-sandalled  feet,  and  laid 

A  subtle  finger  on  his  lids.     And  so, 

Crouched  at  the  warder-post,  Alectryon  slept. 

Meanwhile  the  God  and  Goddess,  recking  nought 
Of  evil,  trusting  to  the  faithful  boy, 
Sank  satiate  in  the  calm  of  tranced  rest. 
And  past  the  sleeping  warder,  deep  within 
The  portals  of  that  chamber  whence  all  winds 
Of  love  flow  ever  toward  the  fourfold  Earth, 
Hypnos  kept  on,  walking,  yet  half  afloat 
In  the  sweet  air  ;  and  fluttering  with  cool  wings 
Above  their  couch  fanned  the  reposeful  pair 
To  slumber.     Thus,  a  careless  twilight  hour, 
Unknowing  Eos  and  her  torch,  they  slept. 

Ill-fated  rest !     Awake,  ye  fleet-winged  Loves, 
Your  mistress  !     Eos,  rouse  the  sleeping  God, 
And  warn  him  of  the  coming  of  the  Day  ! 
Alectryon,  wake  !     In  vain  :  Eos  swept  by, 
Radiant,  a  blushing  finger  on  her  lips. 
In  vain  !     Close  on  her  flight,  from  furthest  East, 
The  peering  Helios  drove  his  lambent  car, 


ALECTRYON.  !5l 

Casting  the  tell-tale  beams  on  earth  and  sky, 

Until  Olympos  laughed  within  his  light, 

And  all  the  House  of  Fire  grew  roofed  with  gold  ; 

And  through  its  brazen  windows  Helios  gazed 

Upon  the  sleeping  lovers  :  thence  away 

To  Lemnos  flashed,  across  the  rearward  sea, 

A  messenger,  from  whom  the  vengeful  smith, 

Hephaestos,  learned  the  story  of  his  wrongs  ; 

Whence  afterward  rude  scandal  spread  through  Heaven. 

But  they,  the  lovers,  startled  from  sweet  sleep 
By  garish  Day,  stood  timorous  and  mute, 
Even  as  a  regal  pair,  the  hart  and  hind, 
When  first  the  keynote  of  the  clarion  horn 
Pierces  their  covert,  and  the  deep-mouthed  hound 
Bays,  following  on  the  trail ;  then,  with  small  pause 
For  amorous  partings,  sped  in  diverse  ways. 
She,  Aphrodite,  clothed  in  pearly  cloud, 
Dropt  from  Olympos  to  the  eastern  shore  ; 
Thence  floated,  half  in  shame,  half  laughter-pleased, 
Southward  across  the  blue  y^gaean  sea, 
That  had  a  thousand  little  dimpling  smiles 
At  her  discomfort,  and  a  thousand  eyes 
To  shoot  irreverent  glances.     But  her  conch 
Passed  the  Euboean  coasts,  and  softly  on 
By  rugged  Delos,  and  the  gentler  slope 
Of  Naxos,  to  Icarian  waves  serene  ; 
Thence  sailed  betwixt  fair  Rhodos,  on  the  left, 
And  windy  Carpathos,  until  it  touched 
Cyprus  ;  and  soon  the  conscious  Goddess  found 
Her  bower  in  the  hollow  of  the  isle  ; 
And  wondering  nymphs  in  their  white  arms  received 
Their  white-armed  mistress,  bathing  her  fair  limbs 
In  fragrant  dews,  twining  her  lucent  hair 


152 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


With  roses,  and  with  kisses  soothing  her  ; 
Till,  glowing  in  fresh  loveliness,  she  sank 
To  stillness,  tended  in  the  sacred  isle, 
And  hid  herself  awhile  from  all  her  peers. 

But  angry  Ares  faced  the  treacherous  Morn, 
Spurning  the  palace  tower  ;  nor  looked  behind, 
Disdainful  of  himself  and  secret  joys 
That  stript  him  to  the  laughter  of  the  Gods. 
Toward  the  East  he  made,  and  overhung 
The  broad  Thermaic  gulf;  then,  shunning  well 
The  crags  of  Lemnos,  by  Mount  Athos  stayed 
A  moment,  mute  ;  thence  hurtled  sheer  away, 
Across  the  murmuring  Northern  sea,  whose  waves 
Are  swollen  in  billows  ruffled  with  the  cuffs 
Of  endless  winds  ;  so  reached  the  shores  of  Thrace, 
And  spleen  pursued  him  in  the  tangled  wilds. 

Hither  at  eventide  remorseful  came 
Alectryon  ;  but  the  indignant  God, 
With  harsh  revilings,  changed  him  to  the  Cock, 
That  evermore,  remembering  his  fault, 
Heralds  with  warning  voice  the  coming  Day. 


THE    TEST. 

SEVEN   women   loved  him.     When   the  wrinkled 
pall 

Enwrapt  him  from  their  unfulfilled  desire 
(Death,  pale,  triumphant  rival,  conquering  all,) 


THE   TEST. 


153 


They  came,  for  that  last  look,  around  his  pyre. 

One  strewed  white    roses,   on    whose   leaves   were 

hung 
Her  tears,  like  dew  ;  and  in  discreet  attire 

Warbled  her  tuneful  sorrow.     Next  among 

The  group,  a  fair-haired  virgin  moved  serenely, 
Whose  saintly  heart  no  vain  repinings  wrung, 

Reached    the   calm  dust,   and    there,   composed  and 

queenly, 

Gazed,  but  the  missal  trembled  in  her  hand  : 
"  That 's  with  the  past,"  she  said,  "  nor  may  I  meamy 

Give  way  to  tears  ! "  and  passed  into  the  land. 

The  third  hung  feebly  on  the  portals,  moaning, 
With  whitened  lips,  and  feet  that  stood  in  sand, 

So  weak  they  seemed,  — and  all  her  passion  owning. 

The  fourth,  a  ripe,  luxurious  maiden,  came, 
Half  for  such  homage  to  the  dead  atoning 

• 
By  smiles  on  one  who  fanned  a  later  flame 

In  her  slight  soul,  her  fickle  steps  attended. 
The  fifth  and  sixth  were  sisters  ;  at  the  same 

Wild  moment  both  above  the  image  bended, 

And  with  immortal  hatred  each  on  each 
Glared,  and  therewith  her  exultation  blended, 

To  know  the  dead  had  'scaped  the  other's  reach  ! 

Meanwhile,  through  all  the  words  of  anguish  spoken, 
One  lowly  form  had  given  no  sound  of  speech, 


154 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Through  all  the  signs  of  woe,  no  sign  nor  token  ; 

But  when  they  came  to  bear  him  to  his  rest, 
They  found  her  beauty  paled,  —  her  heart  was  broken 

And  in  the  Silent  Land  his  shade  confest 
That  she,  of  all  the  seven,  loved  him  best. 


THE  OLD  LOVE  AND  THE  NEW. 


NCE  more  on  the  fallow  hillside,  as  of  old,  I  lie 


^-s     at  rest 

For  an  hour,  while  the  sunshine  trembles  through  the 
walnut-tree  to  the  west,  — 

Shakes  on  the  rocks  and  fragrant  ferns,  and  the  berry- 
bushes  around ; 

And  I  watch,  as  of  old,  the  cattle  graze  in  the  .lower 
pasture-ground. 

Of  tfie  Saxon  months  of  blossom,  when  the  merle  and 
mavis  sing, 

And  a  dust  of  gold  falls  everywhere  from  the  soft  mid- 
summer's wing, 

I  only  know  from  my  poets,  or  from  pictures  that  hither 
come, 

Sweet  with  the  smile  of  the  hawthorn-hedge  and  the 
scent  of  the  harvest-home. 

But  July  in  our  own  New  England  —  I  bask  myself  in 

its  prime, 
As  one  in  the  light  of  a  face  he  loves,  and  has  not  seen 

for  a  time ! 


THE   OLD  LOVE  AND    THE  NEW. 


155 


Again  the  perfect  blue  of  the  sky  ;    the   fresh    green 

woods ;  the  call 
Of  the  crested  jay  ;   the  tangled  vines  that  cover  the 

frost-thrown  wall : 

Sounds  and  shadows  remembered  well !  the  ground- 
bee's  droning  hum ; 

The  distant  musical  tree-tops  ;  the  locust  beating  his 
drum  ; 

And  the  ripened  July  warmth,  that  seems  akin  to  a  fire 
which  stole, 

Long  summers  since,  through  the  thews  of  youth,  to 
soften  and  harden  my  soul. 

Here  it  was  that  I  loved  her  —  as  only  a  stripling  can, 
Who  doats  on  a  girl  that  others  know  no  mate  for  the 

future  man  ; 
It  was  well,  perhaps,  that  at  last  my  pride  and  honor 

outgrew  her  art, 
That  there  came  an  hour,  when  from  broken  chains  I 

fled  —  with  a  broken  heart. 

'T  was  well :  but  the  fire  would  still  flash  up  in  sharp, 
heat-lightning  gleams, 

And  ever  at  night  the  false,  fair  face  shone  into  passion- 
ate dreams  ; 

The  false,  fair  form,  through  many  a  year,  was  some- 
where close  at  my  side, 

And  crept,  as  by  right,  to  my  very  arms  and  the  place 
of  my  patient  bride. 

Bride  and  vision  have  passed  away,  and  I  am  again 
alone ; 

Changed  by  years ;  not  wiser,  I  think,  but  only  differ- 
ent grown  : 


I56  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Not  so  much  nearer  wisdom  is  a  man  than  a  boy,  for- 
sooth, 

Though,  in  scorn  of  what  has  come  and  gone,  he  hates 
the  ways  of  his  youth. 

In  seven  years,  I  have  heard  it  said,  a  soul  shall  change 

its  frame ; 
Atom  for  atom,  the  man  shall  be  the  same,  yet  not  the 

same ; 
The  last  of  the  ancient  ichor  shall  pass  away  from  his 

veins, 
And  a  new-born  light  shall  fill  the  eyes  whose  earlier 

lustre  wanes. 

In  seven   years,  it  is  written,  a  man   shall  shift   his 

mood  ; 
Good  shall  seem  what  was  evil,  and  evil  the  thing  that 

was  good  : 
Ye  that  welcome  the  coming   and   speed. the  parting 

guest, 
Tell  me,  O  winds  of  summer !  am  I  not  half-confest  ? 

For  along  the  tide  of  this  mellow  month  new  fancies 
guide  my  helm, 

Another  form  has  entered  my  heart  as  rightful  queen 
of  the  realm  ; 

From  under  their  long  black  lashes  new  eyes  —  half- 
blue,  half-gray  — 

Pierce  through  my  soul,  to  drive  the  ghost  of  the  old  love 
quite  away. 

Shadow  of  years  !  at  last  it  sinks  in  the  sepulchre  of 

the  past,  — 
A  gentle  image  and  fair  to  see ;  but  was  my  passion  so 

vast  ? 


THE   OLD   LOVE  AND    THE  NEW. 


157 


"  For  you,"  I  said,  "  be  you  false  or  true,  are  ever  life 

of  my  life  !  " 
Was  it  myself  or  another  who  spoke,  and  asked  her  to 

be  his  wife  ? 

For  here,  on  the  dear  old  hillside,  I  lie  at  rest  again, 
And  think  with  a  quiet  self-content  of  all  the  passion 

and  pain, 
Of  the  strong  resolve  and  the  after-strife  ;  but  the  vistas 

round  me  seem 
So  little  changed  that  I  hardly  know  if  the  past  is  not 

a  dream. 

Can  I  have  sailed,  for  seven  years,  far  out  in  the  open 

world  ; 
Have  tacked  and  drifted  here  and  there,  by  eddying 

currents  whirled ; 
Have  gained  and  lost,  and  found  again  ;  and  now,  for  a 

respite,  come 
Once  more  to  the  happy  scenes  of  old,  and  the  haven  I 

voyaged  from  ? 

Blended,  infinite  murmurs  of  True  Love's  earliest  song, 
Where  are  you  slumbering  out  of  the  heart  that  gave 

you  echoes  so  long  ? 
But  chords  that  have  ceased  to  vibrate  the  swell  of  an 

ancient  strain 
May  thrill  with  a  soulful  music  when  rightly  touched 

again. 

Rock  and  forest  and  meadow, —  landscape  perfect  and 

true  ! 
O,   if  ourselves   were  tender   and  all  unchangeful  as 

you, 


I58  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

I  should  not  now  be  dreaming  of  seven  years  that  have 

been, 
Nor  bidding  old  love  good  by  forever,  and  letting  the 

new  love  in ! 


ESTELLE. 

"  How  came  he  mad  ? "  —  HAMLET. 

OF  all  the  beautiful  demons  who  fasten  on  human 
hearts 
To  fetter  the  bodies  and  souls  of  men  with  exquisite, 

mocking  arts, 

The  cruellest,  and  subtlest,  and  fairest  to  mortal  sight, 
Is  surely  a  woman  called  Estelle,  who  tortures  me  day 
and  night. 

The  first  time  that  I  saw  her  she  passed  with  sweet  lips 

mute, 
As  if  in  scorn  of  the  vacant  praise  of  those  who  made 

her  suit ; 
A  hundred  lustres  flashed  and  shone  as  she  rustled 

through  the  crowd, 
And  a  passion  seized  me  for  her  there,  —  so  passionless 

and  proud. 

The  second  time  that  I  saw  her  she  met  me  face  to 

face; 
Her  bending  beauty  answered  my  bow  in  a  tremulous 

moment's  space ; 
With  an  upward  glance  that  instantly  fell  she  read  me 

through  and  through, 
And  found  in  me  something  worth  her  while  to  idle 

with  and  subdue ; 


ESTELLE.  1 59 

Something,  I  know  not  what :    perhaps  the  spirit  of 

eager  youth, 
That  named  her  a  queen  of  queens  at  once,  and  loved 

her  in  very  truth  ; 
That  threw  its  pearl  of  pearls  at  her  feet,  and  offered 

her,  in  a  breath, 
The  costliest  gift  a  man  can  give  from  his  cradle  to  his 

death. 

The  third  time  that  I  saw  her  — this  woman  called 
Estelle  — 

She  passed  her  milk-white  arm  through  mine  and  daz- 
zled me  with  her  spell ; 

A  blissful  fever  thrilled  my  veins,  and  there,  in  the 
moon-beams  white, 

I  yielded  my  soul  to  the  fierce  control  of  that  madden- 
ing delight ! 

And  at  many  a  trysting  afterwards  she  wove  my  heart- 
strings round 

Her  delicate  fingers,  twisting  them,  and  chanting  low 
as  she  wound ; 

The  rune  she  sang  rang  sweet  and  clear  like  the  chime 
of  a  witch's  bell ; 

Its  echo  haunts  me  even  now,  with  the  word,  Estelle! 
Estelle  ! 

Ah,  then,  as  a  dozen  before  me  had,  I  lay  at  last  at  her 

feet, 
And  she  turned  me  off  with  a  calm  surprise  when  her 

triumph  was  all  complete  : 
It  made  me  wild,  the  stroke  which  smiled  so  pitiless 

out  of  her  eyes, 
Like  lightning  fallen,  in  clear  noonday,  from  cloudless 

and  bluest  skies  ! 


!6O  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The  whirlwind  followed  upon  my  brain  and  beat  my 

thoughts  to  rack : 
Who  knows  the  many  a  month  I  lay  ere  memory  floated 

back? 
Even  now,   I   tell  you,  I  wonder  whether  this  woman 

called  Estelle 
Is  flesh  and  blood,  or  a  beautiful  lie,  sent  up  from  the 

depths  of  hell. 

For  at  night  she  stands  where  the  pallid  moon  streams 

into  this  grated  cell, 
And  only  gives  me  that  mocking  glance  when  I  speak 

her  name  —  Estelle  ! 
With  the  old  resistless  longing  often  I  strive  to  clasp 

her  there, 
But  she  vanishes  from  my  open  arms  and  hides  I  know 

not  where. 

And  I  hold  that  if  she  were  human  she  could  not  fly 

like  the  wind, 
But  her  heart  would  flutter  against  my  own,  in  spite 

of  her  scornful  mind  : 
Yet,  oh  !  she  is  not  a  phantom,  since  devils  are  not  so 

bad 
As  to  haunt  and  torture  a  man  long  after  their  tricks 

have  made  him  mad ! 


EDGED  TOOLS. 

"1 1  7ELL,  Helen,  quite  two  years  have  flown 

*  *      Since  that  enchanted,  dreamy  night, 
When  you  and  I  were  left  alone, 

And  wondered  whether  they  were  right 


EDGED    TOOLS. 

Who  said  that  each  the  other  loved ; 

And  thus  debating,  yes  and  no, 
And  half  in  earnest,  as  it  proved, 

We  bargained  to  pretend  't  was  so. 

Two  sceptic  children  of  the  world, 

Each  with  a  heart  engraven  o'er 
With  broken  love-knots,  quaintly  curled, 

Of  hot  flirtations  held  before  ; 
Yet,  somehow,  either  seemed  to  find, 

This  time,  a  something  more  akin 
To  that  young,  natural  love,  —  the  kind 

Which  comes  but  once,  and  breaks  us  in. 

What  sweetly  stolen  hours  we  knew, 

And  frolics  perilous  as  gay  ! 
Though  lit  in  sport,  Love's  taper  grew 

More  bright  and  burning  day  by  day. 
We  knew  each  heart  was  only  lent, 

The  other's  ancient  scars  to  heal : 
The  very  thought  a  pathos  blent 

With  all  the  mirth  we  tried  to  feel. 

How  bravely,  when  the  time  to  part 

Came  with  the  wanton  season's  close, 
Though  nature  with  our  mutual  art 

Had  mingled  more  than  either  chose, 
We  smothered  Love,  upon  the  verge 

Of  folly,  in  one  last  embrace, 
And  buried  him  without  a  dirge, 

And  turned,  and  left  his  resting-place. 

Yet  often  (tell  me  what  it  means  !) 
His  spirit  steals  upon  me  here, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Far,  far  away  from  all  the  scenes 
His  little  lifetime  held  so  dear  ; 

He  comes  :   I  hear  a  mystic  strain 
In  which  some  tender  memory  lies ; 

I  dally  with  your  hair  again  ; 
I  catch  the  gleam  of  violet  eyes. 

Ah,  Helen  !  how  have  matters  been 

Since  those  rude  obsequies,  with  you  ? 
Say,  is  my  partner  in  the  sin 

A  sharer  of  the  penance  too  ? 
Again  the  vision  's  at  my  side  : 

I  drop  my  head  upon  my  breast, 
And  wonder  if  he  really  died, 

And  why  his  spirit  will  not  rest. 


THE   SWALLOW. 

HAD  I,  my  love  declared,  the  tireless  wing 
That  wafts  the  swallow  to  her  northern  skies, 
I  would  not,  sheer  within  the  rich  surprise 
Of  full-blown  Summer,  like  the  swallow,  fling 
My  coyer  being  ;  but  would  follow  Spring, 
Melodious  consort,  as  she  daily  flies, 
Apace  with  suns,  that  o'er  new  woodlands  rise 
Each  morn  —  with  rains  her  gentler  stages  bring. 
My  pinions  should  beat  music  with  her  own  ; 
Her  smiles  and  odors  should  delight  me  ever, 
Gliding,  with  measured  progress,  from  the  zone 
Where  golden  seas  receive  the  mighty  river, 
Unto  yon  lichened  cliffs,  whose  ridges  sever 
Our  Norseland  from  the  arctic  surge's  moan. 


REFUGE  IN  NATURE. 


REFUGE   IN   NATURE. 

WHEN  the  rude  world's  relentless  war  has  pressed 
Fiercely  upon  them,  and  the  hot  campaign 
Closes  with  battles  lost,  some  yield  their  lives, 
Or  linger  in  the  ruins  of  the  fight  — 
Unwise,  and  comprehending  not  their  fate, 
Nor  gathering  that  affluent  recompense 
Which  the  all-pitying  Earth  has  yet  in  store. 
Surely  such  men  have  never  known  the  love 
Of  Nature  ;  nor  had  recourse  to  her  fount 
Of  calm  delights,  whose  influences  heal 
The  wounded  spirits  of  her  vanquished  sons  ; 
Nor  ever  —  in  those  fruitful  earlier  days, 
Wherein  her  manifest  forms  do  most  enrich 
Our  senses  void  of  subtler  cognizance  — 
Wandered  in  summer  fields,  climbed  the  free  hills, 
Pursued  the  murmuring  music  of  her  streams, 
And  found  the  borders  of  her  sounding  sea. 

But  thou  —  when,  in  the  multitudinous  lists 
Of  traffic,  all  thine  own  is  forfeited 
At  some  wild  hazard,  or  by  weakening  drains 
Poured  from  thee  ;  or  when,  striving  for  the  meed 
Of  place,  thou  failest,  and  the  lesser  man 
By  each  ignoble  method  wins  thy  due  ; 
When  the  injustice  of  the  social  world 
Environs  thee  ;  when  ruthless  public  scorn, 
Black  slander,  and  the  meannesses  of  friends 
Have  made  the  bustling  practice  of  the  world 
To  thee  a  discord  and  a  mockery  ; 
Or  even  if  that  last  extremes!  pang 


!64  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Be  thine,  and,  added  to  such  other  woes, 

The  loss  of  that  forever  faithful  love 

Which  else  had  balanced  all :  the  putting  out, 

Untimely,  of  the  light  in  dearest  eyes  ;  — 

At  such  a  time  thou  well  may'st  count  the  days 

Evil,  and  for  a  season  quit  the  field  ; 

Yet  not  surrendering  all  human  hopes, 

Nor  the  rich  physical  life  which  still  remains 

God's  boon  and  thy  sustainer.     It  were  base 

To  join  alliance  with  the  hosts  of  Fate 

Against  thyself,  crowning  their  victory 

By  loose  despair,  or  seeking  rest  in  death. 

More  wise,  betake  thee  to  those  sylvan  haunts 
Thou  knewest  when  young,  and,  once  again  a  child, 
Let  their  perennial  loveliness  renew 
Thy  natural  faith  and  childhood's  heart  serene. 
Forgetting  all  the  toilsome  pilgrimage, 
Awake  from  strife  and  shame,  as  from  a  dream 
Dreamed  by  a  boy,  when  under  waving  trees 
He  sleeps  and  dreams  a  languid  afternoon. 
Once  more  from  these  harmonious  beauties  gain 
Repose  and  ransom,  and  a  power  to  feel 
The  immortal  gladness  of  inanimate  things. 

There  is  the  mighty  Mother,  ever  young 
And  garlanded,  and  welcoming  her  sons. 
There  are  her  thousand  charms  to  soothe  thy  pain, 
And  merge  thy  little,  individual  woe 
In  the  broad  health  and  happy  fruitfulness 
Of  all  that  smiles  around  thee.     For  thy  sake 
The  woven  arches  of  her  forests  breathe 
Perpetual  anthems,  and  the  blue  skies  smile 
Between,  to  heal  thee  with  their  infinite  hope. 


MONTAGU.  i 

There  are  her  crystal  waters  :  lave  thy  brows, 

Hot  with  long  turmoil,  in  their  purity ; 

Wash  off  the  battle-dust  from  those  poor  limbs 

Blood-stained  and  weary.     Holy  sleep  shall  come 

Upon  thee  ;  waking,  thou  shalt  find  in  bloom 

The  lilies,  fresh  as  in  the  olden  days  ; 

And  once  again,  when  Night  unveils  her  stars, 

Thou  shalt  have  sight  of  their  high  radiance, 

And  feel  the  old,  mysterious  awe  subdue 

The  phantoms  of  thy  pain. 

And  from  that  height 

A  voice  shall  whisper  of  the  faith,  through  which 
A  man  may  act  his  part  until  the  end. 
Anon  thy  ancient  yearning  for  the  fight 
May  come  once  more,  tempered  by  poise  of  chance, 
And  guided  well  with  all  experience. 
Invisible  hands  may  gird  thy  armor  on, 
And  Nature  put  new  weapons  in  thy  hands, 
Sending  thee  out  to  try  the  world  again,  — 
Perchance  to  conquer,  being  cased  in  mail 
Of  double  memories  ;  knowing  smaller  griefs 
Can  add  no  sorrow  to  the  woful  past ; 
And  that,  howbeit  thou  mayest  stand  or  fall, 
Earth  proffers  men  her  refuge  everywhere, 
And  Heaven's  promise  is  for  aye  the  same. 


MONTAGU. 

QUEEN  Katherine  of  Arragon 
In  gray  Kimbolton  dwelt, 
A  joyous  bride,  ere  bluff  King  Hal 
At  Bullen's  footstool  knelt. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Still  in  her  haughty  Spanish  eyes 
Their  childhood's  lustre  shone, 

That  lit  with  love  two  royal  hearts, 
And  won  the  English  throne. 

From  gray  Kimbolton's  castle-gate 
She  rode,  each  summer's  day, 

And  blithely  led  the  greenwood  chase 
With  hawk  and  hound  away. 

And  ever  handsome  Montagu, 

Her  Master  of  the  Horse, 
To  guard  his  mistress  kept  her  pace 

O'er  heather,  turf,  and  gorse. 

O,  who  so  brave  as  Montagu 

To  leap  the  hedges  clear  ! 
And  who  so  fleet  as  he  to  find 

The  coverts  of  the  deer  ! 

And  who  so  wild  as  Montagu, 
To  seek  his  sovereign's  love  ! 

More  hopeless  than  a  child,  who  craves 
The  brightest  star  above. 

Day  after  day  her  presence  fed 

The  fever  at  his  heart ; 
Yet  loyally  the  young  knight  scorned 

To  play  a  traitor's  part. 

Only,  when  at  her  palfrey's  side 
He  bowed  him  by  command, 

Lightening  her  footfall  to  the  earth, 
He  pressed  her  dainty  hand  ; 


i67 


MONTAGU. 

A  tender  touch,  as  light  as  love, 
Soft  as  his  heart's  desire  ; 

But  aye,  in  Katherine's  artless  blood, 
It  woke  no  answering  fire. 

King  Hal  to  gray  Kimbolton  came 
Erelong,  and  true  love's  sign, 

Unused  in  colder  Arragon, 
She  prayed  him  to  divine  : 


"  Canst  tell  me,  Sire,"  she  said,  "  what  mean 

The  gentry  of  your  land, 
When  softly,  thus,  and  thus,  they  take 

And  press  a  lady's  hand  ?  " 

"  Ha  !  ha  ! "  laughed  Hal,  "but  tell  me,  Chick, 
.  Each  answering  in  course, 
Do  any  press  your  hand  ? "     "  O  yes, 
My  Master  of  the  Horse." 

Off  to  the  wars  her  gallant  went, 

And  pushed  the  foremost  dikes, 
And  gashed  his  fair  young  form  against 

A  score  of  Flemish  pikes. 

Heart's  blood  ebbed  fast ;  but  Montagu, 

Dipping  a  finger,  wove 
These  red  words  in  his  shield  :  "  Dear  Queen, 

I  perish  of  your  love  ! " 

Kimbolton,  after  many  a  year, 

Again  met  Katherine's  view : 
The  banished  wife,  with  half  a  sigh, 

Remembered  Montagu. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


WILD  WINDS  WHISTLE. 


SIR  ULRIC  a  Southern  dame  has  wed  ; 
Wild  winds  whistle  and  snow  is  come; 
He  has  brought  her  home  to  his  bower  and  bed. 
Hither  and  thither  the  birds  fly  home. 

Her  hair  is  darker  than  thick  of  night ; 

Wild  winds  whistle,  &C. 
Her  hands  are  fair,  and  her  step  is  light. 

Hither  and  thither,  ty*c. 

From  out  his  castel  in  the  North 
Sir  Ulric  to  hunt  rode  lightly  forth. 

Three  things  he  left  her  for  good  or  ill,  — 
A  bonny  bird  that  should  sing  at  will, 

With  carol  sweeter  than  silver  bell, 
Day  and  night  in  the  old  castel ; 

A  lithe  little  page  to  gather  flowers  ; 
And  a  crystal  dial  to  mark  the  hours. 


Lady  Margaret  watched  Sir  Ulric  speed 
Away  to  the  chase  on  his  faithful  steed. 

From  morning  till  night,  the  first  day  long, 
She  sat  and  listened  the  bonny  bird's  song. 


WILD    WINDS    WHISTLE.  j6 

The  second  day  long,  with  fingers  fair, 
She  curled  and  combed  her  page's  hair. 

The  third  day's  sun  rose  up  on  high ; 
By  the  dial  she  was  seated  nigh : 

She  loathed  the  bird  and  the  page's  face, 
And  counted  the  shadow's  creeping  pace. 

5- 

The  strange  knight  drew  his  bridle-rein  ; 

He  looked  at  the  sky  and  he  looked  at  the  plain. 

"  O  lady  ! "  he  said,  "  't  was  a  sin  and  shame 
To  leave  for  the  chase  so  fair  a  dame. 

"  O  lady  ! "  he  said,  "  we  two  will  flee 
To  the  blithesome  land  of  Italie  ; 

"  There  the  orange  grows,  and  the  fruitful  vine, 
And  a  bower  of  myrtle  shall  be  thine." 

He  has  taken  her  hand  and  kissed  her  mouth  : 
Now  Ho  !  sing  Ho  !  for  the  sunny  South. 

He  has  kissed  her  mouth  and  clasped  her  waist : 
Now,  good  gray  steed,  make  haste,  make  haste  ! 

4- 

Sir  Ulric  back  from  the  chase  has  come, 
And  sounds  the  horn  at  his  castel-home. 

Or  ever  he  drew  his  bridle-rein, 
He  saw  the  dial  split  in  twain  ; 
8 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS, 

The  bonny  blithe  bird  was  stark  and  dead, 
And  the  lithe  little  page  hung  down  his  head. 

The  lithe  little  page  hung  down  his  head  ; 

Wild  winds  whistle  and  snow  is  come; 
"  O  where,  Sir  Page,  has  my  lady  fled  ?  " 

Hither  and  thither  the  birds  fly  home. 


PETER  STUYVESANT'S  NEW  YEAR'S  CALL 

I  JAN.  A.  C.  l66l. 

T  WHERE  nowadays  the  Battery  lies, 
V  •     New  York  had  just  begun, 
A  new-born  babe,  to  rub  its  eyes, 

In  Sixteen  Sixty-One. 
They  christened  it  Nieuw  Amsterdam, 

Those  burghers  grave  and  stately, 
And  so,  with  schnapps  and  smoke  and  psalm, 

Lived  out  their  lives  sedately. 

Two  windmills  topped  their  wooden  wall, 

On  Stadthuys  gazing  down, 
On  fort,  and  cabbage-plots,  and  all 

The  quaintly  gabled  town  ; 
These  flapped  their  wings  and  shifted  backs, 

As  ancient  scrolls  determine, 
To  scare  the  savage  Hackensacks, 

Paumanks,  and  other  vermin. 

At  night  the  loyal  settlers  lay 
Betwixt  their  feather-beds  ; 


PETER  STUYVESANT'S  CALL. 

In  hose  and  breeches  walked  by  day, 
And  smoked,  and  wagged  their  heads. 

No  changeful  fashions  came  from  France, 
The  freulen  to  bewilder, 

And  cost  the  burgher's  purse,  perchance, 
Its  every  other  guilder. 

In  petticoats  of  linsey-red, 

And  jackets  neatly  kept, 
The  vrouws  their  knitting-needles  sped 

And  deftly  spun  and  swept. 
Few  modern-school  flirtations  there 

Set  wheels  of  scandal  trundling, 
But  youths  and  maidens  did  their  share 

Of  staid,  old-fashioned  bundling. 

—  The  New  Year  opened  clear  and  cold ; 

The  snow,  a  Flemish  ell 
In  depth,  lay  over  Beeckman's  Wold 

And  Wolfert's  frozen  well. 
Each  burgher  shook  his  kitchen-doors, 

Drew  on  his  Holland  leather, 
Then  stamped  through  drifts  to  do  the  chores, 

Beshrewing  all  such  weather. 

But  —  after  herring,  ham,  and  kraut  — 

To  all  the  gathered  town 
The  Dominie  preached  the  morning  out, 

In  Calvinistic  gown  ; 
While  tough  old  Peter  Stuyvesant 

Sat  pewed  in  foremost  station,  — 
The  potent,  sage,  and  valiant 

Third  Governor  of  the  nation. 


171 


172 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Prayer  over,  at  his  mansion  hall, 

With  cake  and  courtly  smile 
He  met  the  people,  one  and  all, 

In  gubernatorial  style ; 
Yet  missed,  though  now  the  day  was  old, 

An  ancient  fellow-feaster,  — 
Heer  Govert  Loockermans,  that  bold 

Brewer  and  burgomeester ; 

Who,  in  his  farm-house,  close  without 

The  picket's  eastern  end, 
Sat  growling  at  the  twinge  of  gout 

That  kept  him  from  his  friend. 
But  Peter  strapped  his  wooden  peg, 

When  tea  and  cake  were  ended 
(Meanwhile  the  sound  remaining  leg 

Its  high  jack-boot  defended), 

A  woolsey  cloak  about  him  threw, 

And  swore,  by  wind  and  limb, 
Since  Govert  kept  from  Peter's  view, 

Peter  would  visit  him  ; 
Then  sallied  forth,  through  snow  and  blast, 

While  many  a  humble  greeter 
Stood  wondering  whereaway  so  fast 

Strode  bluff  Hardkoppig  Pieter. 

Past  quay  and  cowpath,  through  a  lane 

Of  vats  and  mounded  tans, 
He  puffed  along,  with  might  and  main, 

To  Govert  Loockermans  ; 
Once  there,  his  right  of  entry  took, 

And  hailed  his  ancient  crony : 
"  Myn  G6d  !  in  dese  Manhattoes,  Loock, 

Ve  gets  more  snow  as  money  !  " 


PETER  STUYVESANT'S   CALL. 

To  which,  and  after  whiffs  profound, 

With  doubtful  wink  and  nod, 
There  came  at  last  responsive  sound  : 

"  Yah,  Peter  ;  yah,  Myn  G6d  !  " 
Then  goedevrouw  Marie  sat  her  guest 

Beneath  the  chimney-gable, 
And  courtesied,  bustling  at  her  best 

To  spread  the  New  Year's  table. 

She  brought  the  pure  and  genial  schnapps, 

That  years  before  had  come  — 
In  the  "  Nieuw  Nederlandts,"  perhaps  — 

To  cheer  the  settlers'  home  ; 
The  long-stemmed  pipes  ;  the  fragrant  roll 

Of  pressed  and  crispy  Spanish  ; 
Then  placed  the  earthen  mugs  and  bowl, 

Nor  long  delayed  to  vanish. 

Thereat,  with  cheery  nod  and  wink, 

And  honors  of  the  day, 
The  trader  mixed  the  Governor's  drink 

As  evening  sped  away. 
That  ancient  room  !     I  see  it  now  : 

The  carven  nutwood  dresser  ; 
The  drawers,  that  many  a  burgher's  vrouw 

Begrudged  their  rich  possessor  ; 

The  brace  of  high-backed  leathern  chairs, 

Brass-nailed  at  every  seam  ; 
Six  others,  ranged  in  equal  pairs  ; 

The  bacon  hung  abeam  ; 
The  chimney-front,  with  porcelain  shelft ; 

The  hearty  wooden  fire  ; 
The  picture,  on  the  steaming  delft, 

Of  David  and  Goliah. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

I  see  the  two  old  Dutchmen  sit 

Like  Magog  and  his  mate, 
And  hear  them,  when  their  pipes  are  lit, 

Discuss  affairs  of  state  : 
The  clique  that  would  their  sway  demean  ; 

The  pestilent  importation 
Of  wooden  nutmegs,  from  the  lean 

And  losel  Yankee  nation. 

But  when  the  subtle  juniper 

Assumed  its  sure  command, 
They  drank  the  buxom  loves  that  were, — 

They  drank  the  Motherland  ; 
They  drank  the  famous  Swedish  wars, 

Stout  Peter's  special  glory, 
While  Covert  proudly  showed  the  scars 

Of  Indian  contests  gory. 

Erelong,  the  berry's  power  awoke 

Some  music  in  their  brains, 
And,  trumpet-like,  through  rolling  smoke, 

Rang  long-forgotten  strains,  — 
Old  Flemish  snatches,  full  of  blood, 

Of  phantom  ships  and  battle  ; 
And  Peter,  with  his  leg  of  wood, 

Made  floor  and  casement  rattle. 

Then  round  and  round  the  dresser  pranced, 

The  chairs  began  to  wheel, 
And  on  the  board  the  punch-bowl  danced 

A  "Netherlandish  reel; 
Till  midnight  o'er  the  farm-house  spread 

Her  New- Year's  skirts  of  sable, 
And,  inch  by  inch,  each  puzzled  head 

Dropt  down  upon  the  table. 


PETER  STUYVESANT'S  CALL. 

But  still  to  Peter,  as  he  dreamed, 

That  table  spread  and  turned  ; 
The  chimney-log  blazed  high,  and  seemed 

To  circle  as  it  burned ; 
The  town  into  the  vision  grew 

From  ending  to  beginning  ; 
Fort,  wall,  and  windmill  met  his  view, 

All  widening  and  spinning. 

The  cowpaths,  leading  to  the  docks, 

Grew  broader,  whirling  past, 
And  checkered  into  shining  blocks,  — 

A  city  fair  and  vast ; 
Stores,  churches,  mansions,  overspread 

The  metamorphosed  island, 
While  not  a  beaver  showed  his  head 

From  Swamp  to  Kalchook  highland. 

Eftsoons  the  picture  passed  away  ; 

Hours  after,  Peter  woke 
To  see  a  spectral  streak  of  day 

Gleam  in  through  fading  smoke  ; 
Still  slept  old  Govert,  snoring  on 

In  most  melodious  numbers  ; 
No  dreams  of  Eighteen  Sixty-One 

Commingled  with  his  slumbers. 

But  Peter,  from  the  farm-house  door, 

Gazed  doubtfully  around, 
Rejoiced  to  find  himself  once  more 

On  sure  and  solid  ground. 
The  sky  was  somewhat  dark  ahead, 

Wind  east,  and  morning  lowery  ; 
And  on  he  pushed,  a  two-miles'  tread, 

To  breakfast  at  his  Bouwery. 


TRANSLATION 


8* 


TRANSLATION. 


JEAN  PROUVAIRE'S  SONG  AT  THE  BARRICADE. 

"While  the  men  were  making  cartridges  and  the  women  lint ;  while  a 
large  frying-pan,  full  of  melted  pewter  and  lead,  destined  for  the  bullet- 
mould,  was  smoking  over  a  burning  furnace ;  while  the  videttes  were 
watching  the  barricades  with  arms  in  their  hands  ;  while  Enjolras,  whom 
nothing  could  distract,  was  watching  the  videttes,  —  Combeferre,  Courfey- 
rac,  Jean  Prouvaire,  Feuilly  Bossuet,  Joly,  Bahorel,  a  few  others  besides, 
sought  each  other  and  got  together,  as  in  the  most  peaceful  days  of  their 
student-chats,  and  in  a  corner  of  this  wine-shop  changed  into  a  casemate, 
within  two  steps  of  the  redoubt  which  they  had  thrown  up,  their  carbines, 
primed  and  loaded,  resting  on  the  backs  of  their  chairs,  these  gallant 

young  men,  so  near  their  last  hour,  began  to  sing  love-rhymes The 

hour,  the  place,  these  memories  of  youth  recalled,  the  few  stars  which 
began  to  shine  in  the  sky,  the  funereal  repose  of  these  deserted  streets, 
the  imminence  of  the  inexorable  event,  gave  a  pathetic  charm  to  these 
rhymes,  murmured  in  a  low  tone  in  the  twilight  by  Jean  Prouvaire,  who, 
as  we  have  said,  was  a  sweet  poet."  —  Les  Miserable! :  Saint  Denis, 
Book  XII.  Chapter  VI. 

T~\O  you  remember  our  charming  times, 

*— '  When  we  were  both  at  the  age  which  knows, 

Of  all  the  pleasures  of  Paris,  none 

Like  making  love  in  one's  Sunday  clo'es ; 

When  all  your  birthdays,  added  to  mine, 
A  total  of  forty  would  not  bring, 


8o  TRANSLATION. 

And  when,  in  our  humble  and  cosey  roost, 
All,  even  the  Winter,  to  us  was  Spring  ? 

Rare  days  !  then  prudish  Manuel  stalked, 

Paris  feasted  each  saintsday  in  ; 
Foy  thundered  away ;  and  —  ah,  your  waist 

Pricked  me  well  with  a  truant  pin  ! 

Every  one  ogled  you.     At  Prado's, 
Where  you  and  your  briefless  barrister  dined, 

You  were  so  fair  that  the  roses,  I  thought, 
Turned  to  look  at  you  from  behind. 

They  seemed  to  whisper  :  "  How  handsome  she  is  ! 

What  wavy  tresses  !  what  sweet  perfume  ! 
Under  her  mantle  she  hides  her  wings  ; 

Her  flower  of  a  bonnet  is  just  in  bloom  ! " 

I  roamed  with  you,  pressing  your  dainty  arm, 
And  the  passers  thought  that  Love,  in  play, 

Had  mated,  in  unison  so  sweet, 
The  gallant  April  with  gentle  May. 

We  lived  so  coseyly,  all  by  ourselves, 
On  love,  —  that  choice  forbidden  fruit, — 

And  never  a  word  my  lips  could  speak 
But  your  heart  already  had  followed  suit. 

The  Sarbonne  was  that  bucolic  place 
Where  night  till  day  my  passion  throve  : 

'Tis  thus  that  an  ardent  youngster  makes 
The  Student's  Quarter  a  Realm  of  Love. 

O  Place  Maubert !     O  Place  Dauphine  ! 
Sky-parlor  reaching  heavenward  far, 


JEAN  PROUVAIRE'S  SONG.  iS 

In  whose  depths,  when  you  drew  your  stocking  on, 
I  saw  a  twinkling  morning-star. 

Hard-learned  Plato  I  've  long  forgot : 
Neither  Malebranche  nor  Lamennais 

Could  teach  me  such  faith  in  Providence 
As  the  flower  which  in  your  bosom  lay. 

You  were  my  servant  and  I  your  slave  : 

O  golden  attic  !    O  joy,  to  lace 
Your  corset ;  to  watch  you  showing,  at  morn, 

The  ancient  mirror  your  youthful  face  ! 

Ah  !  who  indeed  could  ever  forget 

That  sky  and  dawn  commingling  still ; 

That  ribbony,  flowery,  gauzy  glory, 
And  Love's  sweet  nonsense  talked  at  will  ? 

Our  garden  a  pot  of  tulips  was  ; 

Your  petticoat  curtained  the  window-pane  ; 
I  took  the  earthen  bowl  of  my  pipe 

And  gave  you  a  cup  of  porcelain. 

What  huge  disasters  to  make  us  fun  ! 

Your  muff  afire  ;  your  tippet  lost ; 
And  that  cherished  portrait  of  Shakespeare,  sold, 

One  hungry  evening,  at  half  its  cost. 

I  was  a  beggar  and  you  were  kind  : 
A  kiss  from  your  fair  round  arms  I  'd  steal, 

While  the  folio-Dante  we  gayly  spread 
With  a  hundred  chestnuts,  our  frugal  meal. 

And  oh  !  when  first  my  favored  mouth 
A  kiss  to  your  burning  lips  had  given, 


TRANSLATION. 

You  were  dishevelled  and  all  aglow ; 

I,  pale  with  rapture,  believed  in  Heaven. 

Do  you  remember  our  countless  joys, 
Those  neckerchiefs  rumpled  every  day  ? 

Alas,  what  sighs  from  our  boding  hearts 
The  infinite  skies  have  borne  away  ! 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE 


AND   OTHER  POEMS. 


1869. 


Ensmfrrtr 


RICHARD    HENRY    STODDARD. 


THE   BLAMELESS    PRINCE. 


PRELUDE. 

T)OET,  wherefore  hither  bring 

Old  romance,  while  others  sing 
Sweeter  idyls  of  to-day  ? 
Why  not  picture  in  your  lay 
Western  woods  and  waters  grand, 
Clouds  and  skies  of  this  fair  land? 
Are  there  fairer  far  away  ? 

I  have  many  another  song 
Of  those  regions  where  belong, 

First  of  all,  my  heart  and  home. 

If  for  once  my  fancy  roam, 
Trust  me,  in  the  land  I  view 
Falls  the  sunshine,  falls  the  dew, 

And  the  Spring  and  Summer  come. 

Why  from  yonder  stubble  glean 
Ancient  names  of  King  and  Queen, 

Knightly  men  and  maidens  fair  ? 

Are  there  in  our  time  no  rare 
Beauteous  women,  heroes  brave  ? 


!88  THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 

Is  there  naught  this  side  the  grave 
Worth  the  dust  you  gather  there  f 

Nay,  but  these  were  human  too, 
Strong  or  wayward,  false  or  true. 
Art  will  seek  through  every  clime 
For  her  picture  or  her  rhyme  ; 
Yes,  nor  looking  far  around, 
But  to-day  I  sought  and  found 
These  who  lived  in  that  old  time. 

Why  should  we  again  be  told 

Dross  will  mingle  with  all  gold? 
That  which  time  nor  test  can  stain 
Was  not  smelted  quite  in  vain. 

What  of  Albert1  s  blameless  heart, 

Arthur's  old  heroic  part, 

Saxon  A  If  red's  glorious  reign  f 

Yes,  my  Prince  was  such  as  they, 
Part  of  gold,  and  part  of  clay, 

Though  his  metal  shone  as  bright, 
And  his  dross  was  hid  from  sight. 
He  who  brightest  is,  and  best, 
Still  may  fear  the  secret  test 
That  shall  try  his  heart  aright. 


Let  me,  then,  of  what  befell 
Hearts  that  loved,  my  story  tell. 
Turn  the  leaf  that  lies  between 
You  who  listen  and  the  scene  ! 
Your  pity  for  the  Lady,  since 
She  died  of  sorrow  ;  spare  my  Prince 
Love  to  the  last  my  gentle  Queen  ! 


THE    BLAMELESS    PRINCE. 

LONG  since,  there  was  a  Princess  of  the  blood, 
Sole  heiress  to  the  crown  her  father  wore,  — 
Plucked  from  a  dying  stem,  that  one  fair  bud 
Put  forth,  and  withered  ere  it  others  bore  ; 
And  scarce  the  King  her  blossomed  youth  had  seen, 
When  he,  too,  slept  the  sleep,  and  she  was  Queen. 

Hers  was  a  goodly  realm,  not  stretched  afar 
In  desert  wilds  by  wolf  and  savage  scoured, 

But  locked  in  generous  limits,  strong  in  war, 

Serene  in  peace,  with  mountains  walled  and  towered, 

Fed  by  the  tilth  of  many  a  fertile  plain, 

And  veined  with  streams  that  proudly  sought  the  main. 

The  open  sea  bore  commerce  to  her  marts, 
Tumbling  half  round  her  borders  with  its  tide  ; 

Her  vessels  shot  the  surge  ;  all  noble  arts 
Of  use  and  beauty  in  her  towns  were  plied  ; 

Her  court  was  regal ;  lords  and  ladies  lit 

The  palace  with  their  graces  and  their  wit. 

Wise  councillors  devised  each  apt  decree 

That  gained  the  potent  sanction  of  her  hand  ; 

Great  captains  led  her  arms  on  shore  and  sea  ; 
She  was  the  darling  of  a  loyal  land  ; 

Poets  sang  her  praises,  and  in  hut  and  hall 

Her  excellence  was  the  discourse  of  all. 


190 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 


Her  pride  was  suited  to  her  high  estate, 
Her  gentleness  was  equal  with  her  youth, 

Her  wisdom  in  her  goodness  found  its  mate  ; 
Her  beauty  was  not  that  which  brings  to  ruth 

Men's  lives,  yet  pure  and  luminous  ;  —  and  fair 

Her  locks,  and  over  all  a  sovereign  air. 

Without,  she  bore  herself  as  rulers  should, 
Queenly  in  walk  and  gesture  and  attire  ; 

Within,  she  nursed  her  flower  of  maidennood, 
Sweet  girlish  thoughts  and  virginal  desire  : 

No  woman's  head  so  keen  to  work  its  will 

But  that  the  woman's  heart  is  mistress  still. 

Three  years  she  ruled  a  nation  well  content 
To  have  a  maiden  queen  ;  then  came  a  day 

When  those  on  whom  her  councils  chiefly  leant 
Began  to  speak  of  marriage,  and  to  pray 

Their  sovereign  not  to  hold  herself  alone, 

Nor  trust  the  tenure  of  an  heirless  throne  ; 

And  then  the  people  took  the  cry,  nor  lack 
Was  there  of  courtly  suitors  far  or  near,  — 

Kings,  dukes,  crown-princes,  —  swift  upon  the  track, 
Like  huntsmen  closing  round  a  royal  deer. 

These  she  regarded  not,  but  still,  among 

Her  maids  and  missals,  to  her  freedom  clung. 

And  with  the  rest  there  came  a  puissant  king, 

Whose  country  pressed  against  her  own  domain,  — 

In  strength  its  equal,  but  continuing 

Its  dearest  foe  through  many  a  martial  reign. 

He  sued  to  join  his  hand  and  realm  with  hers, 

And  end  these  wars  ;  then  all  her  ministers 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE.  I9I 

Pleaded  his  suit ;  but,  asking  yet  for  grace, 
And  that  her  hand  might  wait  upon  her  heart, 

She  halted,  till  the  proud  king  turned  his  face 
Homeward  ;  and  still  the  people,  for  their  part, 

Waited  her  choice,  nor  grudged  her  sex's  share 

Of  coyness  to  a  queen  so  young  and  fair. 

There  was  a  little  State  that  nestled  close 
Beside  her  boundaries,  as  wont  to  claim, 

Though  free,  protection  there  from  outer  foes, 
A  Principality  —  at  least  in  name  — 

Whose  ruler  was  her  father's  life-long  friend 

And  firm- ally,  a  statesman  skilled  to  lend 

Shrewd  counsel,  and  who  made,  in  days  gone  by, 

A  visit  to  this  court,  and  with  him  led 
His  son,  a  gentle  Prince,  of  years  anigh 

Her  own,  —  twelve  summers  shone  from  either  head 
And  while  their  elders  moved  from  place  to  place,  — 
The  field-review,  the  audience,  the  chase,  — 

The  Princess  and  the  Prince,  together  thrown, 
With  their  companions  held  a  mimic  court, 

And  with  that  sweet  equality,  the  crown 

Of  Childhood,  —  which  discovers  in  its  sport 

No  barriers  of  rank  or  wealth  or  power,  — 

He  named  himself  her  consort.     From  that  hour 

The  mindful  Princess  never  quite  forgot 

Those  joyous  days,  nor  him,  the  fair-haired  Prince  ; 

And  though  she  well  had  learned  her  greater  lot, 
And  haply  from  his  thought  had  passed  long  since 

Her  girlish  image,  chance,  that  moves  between 

Two  courts,  had  brought  his  portrait  to  the  Queen. 


192 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 


This  from  her  cabinet  she  took  one  morn, 

When  they  still  urged  the  suit  of  that  old  king, 

And  said,  half  jesting,  with  a  pretty  scorn, 

"  Why  mate  your  wilful  Queen  with  mouldering 

And  crabbed  Age  ?     Now  were  he  shaped  like  this, 

With  such  a  face,  he  were  not  so  amiss. 

"  Queens  are  but  women  ;  't  is  a  sickly  year 

That  couples  frost  and  thaw,  our  minstrels  sing."  — 

"  Ho ! "  thought  the  graybeards,  "  sets  the  wind  so 

near  ?  " 
And  thought  again  :  "  Why  not  ?  the  schemeful  king 

Perchance  would  rule  us  where  he  should  be  ruled  ; 

A  humbler  consort  will  be  sooner  schooled." 

Forewarned  are  those  whom  Fortune's  gifts  await. 

Ere  waned  a  moon  the  elder  prince  had  learned  — 
From  half  the  weathercocks  which  gilt  the  state, 

Spying  the  wind  and  shifting  where  it  turned  — 
That  for  love's  simple  sake  his  son  could  gain 
The  world's  chief  prize,  which  kings  had  sought  in  vain. 

How  could  he  choose  but  clutch  it  ?    Yet  the  son 
Seemed  worthy,  for  his  parts  were  of  that  mould 

Oft-failing  Nature  strives  to  join  in  one, 

And  shape  a  hero,  —  pure  and  wise  and  bold  : 

In  arts  and  arms  the  wonder  of  his  peers, 

The  flower  of  princes,  prince  of  cavaliers  ; 

Tall,  lithe  of  form,  and  of  a  Northern  mien, 
Gentle  in  speech  and  thought,  —  while  thus  he  shone, 

A  rising  star,  though  chosen  of  a  queen, 

Why  seek  the  skies  less  tranquil  than  his  own  ? 

Why  should  he  climb  beside  her  perilous  height, 

And  in  that  noonday  blaze  eclipse  his  light  ? 


THE  £  LAMENESS  PRINCE. 

Ah,  why  ?  —  one's  own  life  may  be  bravely  led, 
But  not  another's.     Yet,  as  to  and  fro 

The  buzzing  private  embassies  were  sped, 

And  when  the  Queen's  own  pages,  bowing  low, 

Told  in  his  ear  a  sweet  and  secret  story, 

The  Prince,  long  trained  to  seek  his  house's  glory, 

Let  every  gracious  sentence  seem  a  plume 
Of  love  and  beckoning  beauty  for  his  helm. 

So  passed  a  season  ;  then  the  cannon's  boom 
And  belfry's  peal  delivered  to  the  realm 

The  Queen's  betrothal,  and  the  councils  met, 

And  for  the  nuptial  rites  a  day  was  set. 


NOW  when  the  time  grew  ripe,  the  favored  Prince 
Rides  forth,  and  through  the  little  towns  that  mourn 
His  loss,  and  past  the  boundaries  ;  and,  since 
To  ape  the  pomp  to  which  he  was  not  born 
Seemed  in  his  soul  a  foolish  thing  and  vain, 
A  few  near  comrades,  only,  made  his  train. 

Nor  pressed  the  populace  along  the  ways  ; 

But  —  fof  he  wished  it  so  —  unheralded 
He  rode  from  post  to  post  through  many  days, 

Yet  gained  a  greatness  as  the  distance  fled, 
As  some  dim  comet,  drawing  near  its  bound, 
Takes  lustre  from  the  orb  it  courses  round. 

9  M 


194 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 


And  league  by  league  his  fantasies  outran 

His  progress,  brooding  on  his  mistress'  power, 

Until  his  own  estate  the  while  began 
To  seem  of  lesser  worth  each  passing  hour ; 

And  with  misdoubt  this  fortune  weighed  him  down, 

As  though  a  splendid  mantle  had  been  thrown 

About  him,  which  he  knew  not  well  to  wear, 
And  might  not  forfeit.    Yet  he  spurred  apace, 

And  reached  a  country-seat  that  bordered  near 
The  Capital.     Here,  for  a  little  space, 

He  was  to  rest  from  travel,  and  await 

His  day  of  entrance  at  the  city's  gate. 

Upon  these  grounds  a  gray-haired  noble  dwelt, 
A  ribboned  courtier  of  the  former  reign  ; 

A  tedious  proper  man,  who  glibly  knelt 
To  royalty,  —  this  ancient  chamberlain,  — 

Yoked  with  a  girlish  wife,  and,  for  the  rest, 

Proud  of  the  charge  that  made  a  prince  his  guest. 

The  highway  ran  beside  a  greenwood  keep 

That  reached,  herefrom,  quite  to  the  city's  edge  ; 

Across,  the  fields  with  golden  corn  were  deep  ; 
The  level  sunset  pierced  the  wayside  hedge  ; 

The  banks  were  all  abloom  ;  a  pheasant  whirred 

Far  in  the  bush ;  anon,  some  tuneful  bird 

Broke  into  song,  or,  from  a  covert  dark, 

A  bounding  deer  its  dappled  haunches  showed 

As  though  it  heard  the  stag-hound's  distant  bark. 
The  wistful  Prince  with  loitering  purpose  bode, 

And  thought  how  good  it  were  to  spend  one's  life 

Far  off  from  men,  nor  jostled  with  their  strife. 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE.  xgij 

Even  as  he  mused  he  saw  his  host  ahead, 
Speeding  to  welcome  him,  in  lordly  wont, 

And  all  the  household  in  a  line  bestead  ; 
And  lightly  with  that  escort,  at  the  front, 

A  peerless  woman  rode  across  the  green  ; 

Then  the  Prince  thought,  "It  surely  is  the  Queen, 

Who  comes  to  meet  me  of  her  loving  grace  ! " 
And  his  blood  mounted  ;  but  he  knew  how  fair 

The  royal  locks,  and,  when  she  neared  his  place, 
He  saw  the  lady's  prodigal  dark  hair 

And  wondrous  loveliness  were  wide  apart 

From  the  sweet,  tranquil  picture  next  his  heart. 

And  when  the  chamberlain,  with  halted  suit, 

Made  reverence,  and  was  answered  courteous-wise, 

The  lady  to  her  knightly  guest's  salute 

Turned  her  face  full,  so  that  he  marked  her  eyes,  — 

How  dewy  gray  beneath  each  long,  black  lid, 

And  danger  somewhere  in  their  light  lay  hid. 

There  are  some  natures  housed  so  chaste  within 
Their  placid  dwellings  that  their  heads  control 

The  tumult  of  their  hearts  ;  and  thus  they  win 
A  quittance  from  this  pleading  of  the  soul 

For  Love,  whose  service  does  so  wound  and  heal ; 

How  should  they  crave  for  what  they  cannot  feel  ? 

From  passion  and  from  pain  enfranchised  quite, 
Alike  from  gain  and  never-stanched  Regret, 

Calm  as  the  blind  who  have  not  seen  the  light, 
The  dumb  who  hear  no  precious  voice ;  and  yet 

The  sun  forever  pours  his  lambent  fire 

And  the  high  winds  are  vocal  with  desire. 


Q6  THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 

And  there  are  those  whose  fervent  souls  are  wed 
To  glorious  bodies,  panoplied  for  love, 

Born  to  hear  sweetest  words  that  can  be  said, 
To  give  and  gather  kisses,  and  to  move 

All  men  with  longing  after  them,  —  to  know 

What  flowers  of  paradise  for  lovers  grow. 

The  Vestal,  with  her  silvery  content, 

The  Lesbian,  with  the  passion  and  the  pain,  — 

Which  creature  hath  their  one  Creator  lent 

More  light  of  heaven  ?    Who  would  dare  restrain 

The  beams  of  either  ?  who  the  radiance  mar 

Of  the  white  planet  or  the  burning  star  ? 

If  in  its  innocence  a  life  is  bound 

With  cords  that  thrall  its  birthright  and  design, 
Let  those  whose  hands  the  evil  meshes  wound 

Pray  that  it  cast  no  look  beyond  their  line  ; 
That  no  strong  voice  too  late  may  enter  in 
Its  prison-range,  to  teach  what  might  have  been. 

Was  there  no  conscious  spirit  thus  to  plead 
For  this  bright  lady,  as  the  wondering  guest 

Closed  with  his  welcomers,  and  each  took  heed 
Of  each,  and  horse  to  horse  they  rode  abreast, 

Nearing  a  fair  and  spacious  house  that  stood, 

Half  hidden,  in  the  edges  of  the  wood  ? 

And  while,  the  last  court-tidings  running  o'er, 
Their  talk  on  this  and  that  at  random  fell, 

And  the  trains  joined  behind,  the  lady  bore 
Her  beauteous  head  askance,  yet  wist  full  well 

How  the  Prince  looked  and  spoke  ;  unwittingly, 

With  the  strange  female  sense  and  secret  eye, 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 


197 


Made  of  him  there  her  subtile  estimate, 

Forecast  his  lot,  and  thought  how  all  things  flow 

To  those  who  have  a  surfeit.     Could  the  great, 
The  perfect  Queen,  she  marvelled,  truly  know 

And  love  him  at  his  value  ?     In  his  turn, 

He  read  her  face  as  't  were  a  marble  urn 

Embossed  with  Truth  and  blushful  Innocence, 
Yet  with  the  wild  Loves  carven  in  repose  ; 

And  as  he  looked  he  felt,  and  knew  not  whence, 
A  thought  like  this  come  as  the  wind  that  blows : 

"  A  face  to  lose  one's  life  for ;  ay,  and  more, 

To  live  for !  "  —  So  they  reached  the  sculptured  door 

And  casements  gilded  with  the  dying  light. 

That  eve  the  host  spread  out  a  stately  board, 
And  with  his  household  far  into  the  night 

Feasted  the  Prince.     The  lady,  next  her  lord, 
Drooped  like  a  musk-rose  trained  beside  a  tomb. 
Loath  was  the  guest  that  night  to  seek  his  room. 


A  H  !  wherefore  tell  again  an  oft-told  tale,  — 
**•  That  of  the  sleeping  knight  who  lost  his  wage 
In  the  enchanted  land,  though  cased  with  mail, 
And  bore  the  sacred  shrine  an  empty  gage  ?  - 
How  this  thing  went  it  were  not  worth  to  view 
But  for  the  triple  coil  which  thence  outgrew ; 


jpg  THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 

How,  with  the  morn,  the  ancient  chamberlain 
Made  off,  and  on  the  marriage  business  moved ; 

How  day  by  day  those  young  hearts  fed  amain 
Upon  the  food  of  lovers,  till  —  they  loved. 

Beneath  the  mists  of  duty  and  degree 

A  warmth  of  passion  crept  deliciously 

About  the  twain  ;  and  there,  within  the  gleam 
Of  those  gray  languid  eyes,  his  nearing  fate 

Seemed  to  the  one  a  far,  unquiet  dream. 
So  when  the  heralds  said,  "  All  things  await 

Your  princely  coming,"  the  glad  summons  broke 

Upon  him  like  a  harsh  bell's  jangling  stroke, 

And  waked  him,  and  he  knew  he  must  be  gone 
And  put  that  honeyed  chalice  quite  away ; 

Yet  once  more  met  the  lady,  and  alone, 

It  chanced,  within  the  grounds.     The  two,  that  day, 

Lured  by  a  falling  water's  sound,  went  deep 

Beyond  the  sunlight,  in  the  forest-keep. 

Here  from  a  range  of  wooded  uplands  leapt 
A  mountain  brook  and  far-off  meadows  sought ; 

Now  under  firs  and  tasselled  chestnuts  crept, 
Then  on  through  jagged  rocks  a  passage  fought, 

Until  it  clove  this  shadowy  gorge  and  cool 

In  one  white  cataract,  —  with  a  dark,  broad  pool 

Beneath,  the  home  of  mottled  trout.     One  side 
Rose  the  cliff's  hollowed  height,  and  overhung 

An  open  sward  across  that  basin  wide. 

The  liberal  sun  through  slanting  larches  flung 

Rich  spots  of  gold  upon  the  tufted  ground, 

And  the  great  royal  forest  gloomed  around. 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE.  l^ 

The  Prince,  divided  from  the  world  so  far, 

Sat  with  the  lady  on  a  fallen  tree  ; 
They  looked  like  lovers,  yet  a  prison-bar 

Between  them  had  not  made  the  two  less  free. 
Only  their  eyes  told  what  they  could  not  say, 
For  still  their  lips  spoke  alien  words  that  day. 

She  told  a  legend  of  an  early  king 

Who  knew  the  fairy  of  this  wildwood  glen, 

And  often  sought  her  haunt,  far  off  to  fling 
His  grandeur,  and  be  loved  like  common  men. 

He  died  long  since,  the  lady  said  ;  but  she, 

Who  could  not  die,  how  weary  she  must  be  ! 

They  talked  of  the  strange  beauty  of  the  spot, 
The  light  that  glinted  through  the  ancient  trees, 

Their  own  young  lives,  the  Prince's  future  lot ; 
Then  jested  with  false  laughs.  Like  tangled  bees, 

Each  other  and  themselves  they  sweetly  stung  ; 

They  sung  fond  songs,  and  mocked  the  words  they  sung. 

At  last  he  hung  his  picture  by  a  chain 

About  her  neck,  and  on  it  graved  the  date. 

Her  merry  eyes  grew  soft  with  tender  pain  ; 
She  heard  h^m  sigh,  "  Alas,  by  what  rude  fate 

Our  lives,  like  ships  at  sea,  an  instant  meet, 

Then  part  forever  on  their  courses  fleet !  " 

And  in  sheer  pity  of  herself  she  dropped 

Her  lovely  head  ;  and,  though  with  self  she  strove, 

One  hot  tear  fell.     The  shadow,  which  had  stopped 
On  her  life's  dial,  moved  again,  and  Love 

Went  sobbing  by,  and  only  left  his  wraith  ; 

For  both  were  loyal  to  their  given  faith. 


2OQ  THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 

Farewells  they  breathed  and  self-reproaches  found, 
Half  gliding  with  the  current  to  the  fall, 

Yet  struggling  for  the  shore.  Was  she  not  bound  ? 
Did  not  his  plighted  future,  like  a  wall, 

Jut  'cross  the  stream  ?  They  feared  themselves,  and  rose, 

And  through  the  forest  gained  the  mansion-close 

Unmissed,  and  parted  thus,  nor  met  anew ; 

For  on  the  morrow,  when  the  Prince  took  horse, 
The  lady  feigned  an  illness,  or  't  was  true,  — 

Yet  maybe  from  her  oriel  marked  his  course, 
Watching  his  plume,  that  into  distance  past, 
Like  some  dear  sail  which  sinks  from  sight  at  last. 

He  rode  beneath  their  arch,  where  pennons  flared 
And  standards  with  his  colors  blazoned  in. 

Then  thousands  shouted  welcome  ;  trumpets  blared  ; 
He  felt  the  glories  of  his  life  begin  ! 

Far,  far  behind,  that  eddy  in  its  stream 

Now  seemed  ;  its  vanished  shores,  in  turn,  a  dream. 

Enough  ;  he  passed  the  ways  and  reached  the  Queen. 

With  pomp  and  pageantry  the  vows  were  said 
Leave  to  the  chroniclers  the  storied  scene, 

The  church,  the  court,  the  masks  and  jousts  that  sped  ; 
Not  theirs,  but  ours,  to  follow  Love  apart, 
Where  first  the  bridegroom  held  his  bride  to  heart, 

And  saw  her  purity  and  regnant  worth 
Thus  kept  for  him  and  yielded  to  his  care. 

What  marvel  that  of  all  who  dwelt  on  earth 
He  seemed  most  fortunate  and  she  most  fair 

That  self-same  hour  ?  And  "  By  God's  grace,"  he  thought, 

"  May  I  to  some  ignoble  end  be  brought, 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE.  2OI 

"  Unless  I  so  reward  her  for  her  choice, 
And  shape  my  future  conduct  in  this  land 

By  her  deserving,  that  the  world's  great  voice 
Proclaim  me  not  unworthy  !     Let  my  hand 

Henceforward  make  her  tasks  its  own ;  my  life 

Be  merged  in  this  fair  ruler,  precious  wife, 

'  The  paragon  and  glory  of  her  kind  !  " 
Who  reads  his  own  heart  will  not  think  it  strange 

He  put  that  yester  romance  from  his  mind 
So  readily.     Men's  lives,  like  oceans,  change 

In  shifting  tides,  and  ebb  from  either  shore 

Till  the  strong  planet  draws  them  on  once  more. 


A  ND  as  a  pilgrim,  shielded  by  the  wings 
•**•  Of  some  bright  angel,  crosses  perilous  ground, 
Through  unknown  ways,  and,  while  she  leads  and  sings, 

Forgets  the  past,  nor  sees  what  pits  surround 
His  footsteps,  so  the  young  Prince  cast  away 
That  self-distrust,  and  with  his  sovereign  May 

The  gladness  joined,  and  with  her  sat  in  state, 
Beneath  the  ancient  scutcheons  of  her  throne, 

And  welcome  gave,  and  led  the  revels  late  ; 

But  when  the  still  and  midnight  heavens  shone 

They  fled  the  masquers,  and  the  city's  hum 

Was  silent,  and  the  palace  halls  grew  dumb, 
9* 


2Q2  THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 

And  Love  and  Sleep  in  that  serene  eclipse 

Moved,  making  prince  and  clown  of  one  degree, 

Then  was  she  all  his  own  ;  then  from  her  lips 
He  learned  with  what  a  sweet  humility 

She,  whose  least  word  a  spacious  kingdom  ruled, 

In  Love's  free  vassalage  would  fain  be  schooled. 

How  poor,  she  said,  her  sovereignty  seemed, 

Unless  it  made  her  richer  in  his  eye ! 
And  poor  his  life,  until  her  sunlight  beamed 

Upon  it,  said  the  Prince.  So  months  went  by  ; 
They  were  a  gracious  pair ;  the  Queen  was  glad  ; 
Peace  smiled,  and  the  wide  land  contentment  had. 

And  for  a  time  the  courteous  welcome  paid 
The  chosen  consort,  and  the  people's  joy 

In  the  Queen's  joy,  kept  silent  those  who  weighed 
The  Prince's  make,  and  sought  to  find  alloy 

In  his  fine  gold ;  but,  when  the  freshness  fled 

From  these  things  told,  some  took  new  thought  and  said : 

"  Look  at  the  Queen  :  her  heart  is  wholly  set 
Upon  the  Prince  !  what  if  he  warp  her  mind 

To  errant  policies,  and  rule  us  yet 

By  proxy  ?  "    "  What  and  if  he  prove  the  kind 

Of  trifling  gallant,"  others  said,  "  to  slight 

Our  mistress,  for  each  new  and  base  delight  ? 

u  Ay,  we  will  watch  him,  lest  he  do  her  wrong  ! " 
And  his  due  station,  even  from  the  first, 

The  peers  of  haughty  rank  and  lineage  long, 
Jealous  of  one  whose  blossom  at  a  burst 

Outflamed  their  own,  begrudged  him  ;  till  their  pique 

Grew  plain,  and  sent  proud  color  to  his  cheek. 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE.  203 

So  now  he  fared  as  some  new  actor  fares, 

Who  through  dark  arras  gains  the  open  boards, 

Facing  the  lights,  and  feels  a  thousand  stares 

Come  full  upon  him  ;  and  the  great  throng  hoards  . 

Its  plaudits  ;  and,  as  he  begins  his  tale, 

His  rivals  wait  to  mock  him  if  he  fail. 

But  here  a  brave  simplicity  of  soul 

And  careless  vigilance,  by  honor  bred, 
Stayed  him,  and  o'er  his  actions  held  control. 

A  host  of  generous  virtues  stood  in  stead, 
To  help  him  on  ;  with  patient  manliness 
He  kept  his  rank,  no  greater  and  no  less  ; 

His  life  was  as  a  limpid  rivulet ; 

His  thoughts,  like  golden  sands,  were  through  it  seen, 
Not  on  himself  in  poor  ambition  set, 

But  on  his  chosen  country  and  the  Queen  ; 
And  with  such  gentle  tact  he  bore  a  sense 
Of  conduct  due,  nor  took  nor  gave  offence, 

That,  as  time  went,  he  earned  their  trust,  who  first 
Withheld  it  him,  and  brought  them,  one  by  one, 

To  seek  him  for  a  comrade  ;  but  he  nursed 
His  friendships  with  such  equal  care  that  none 

Could  claim  him  as  their  own  ;  nor  was  his  word 

Of  counsel  dulled  by  being  often  heard  ; 

Nor  would  he  sully  his  fresh  youth  among 
The  roisterers  and  pretty  wanton  dames 

Who  strove  to  win  him  ;  nor  with  ribald  tongue 
Joined  in  the  talk  that  round  a  palace  flames  ; 

Nor  came  and  went  alone,  save  —  'twas  his  wont 

In  his  own  land  — he  haply  left  the  hunt 


2O4  THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 

On  forest  days,  and,  plunging  down  the  wood, 
There  in  the  brakes  and  copses  half  forgot 

The  part  he  bore,  and  caught  anew  the  mood 
Of  youth,  and  felt  a  heart  for  any  lot ; 

Then,  loitering  cityward  behind  the  train, 

With  fresher  courage  took  his  place  again. 

His  pure  life  made  the  wits  about  the  court 

Find  in  its  very  blamelessness  a  fault 
That  lacked  the  generous  failings  of  their  sort. 

"  With  so  much  sweet,"  they  swore,  "  a  grain  of  salt 
Were  welcome  !  lighter  tongue  and  freer  mood 
Were  something  more  of  man,  if  less  of  prude  ! " 

And  others  to  his  praises  would  oppose 
Suspicion  of  his  prowess,  and  they  said, 

"  Our  rose  of  princes  is  a  thornless  rose, 
A  woman's  toy  ! "  and,  when  the  months  were  sped, 

And  the  glad  Queen  was  childed  with  a  son, 

Light  jests  upon  his  mission  well  begun 

They  bandied  ;  yet  the  Prince,  who  felt  the  sting, 
Bided  his  time.     Till  on  the  land  there  brake 

A  sudden  warfare  ;  for  that  haughty  king, 
Gathering  a  mighty  armament  to  take 

Revenge  for  his  lost  suit,  with  sword  and  flame 

Against  the  borders  on  short  pretext  came. 

Then  with  hot  haste  the  Queen's  whole  forces  poured 
To  meet  him.     With  the  call  to  horse  and  blade 

The  Prince,  deep-chafed  in  spirit,  placed  his  sword 
At  orders  of  the  General,  and  prayed 

A  humble  station,  but,  as  due  his  rank, 

Next  in  command  was  made,  and  led  the  flank. 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE.  2Of, 

And  so  with  doubtful  poise  a  fierce  war  raged, 

Till  on  a  day  encountered  face  to  face 
The  two  chief  hosts,  and  dreadful  battle  waged 

To  close  the  issue.     In  its  opening  space 
Death  smote  the  General,  and  in  tumult  sore 
The  line  sank  back  ;  but  swiftly,  at  the  fore 

Placing  himself,  the  Prince  right  onward  hurled 
The  strife  once  more,  and  with  his  battle-shout 

Woke  victory ;  again  his  forces  whirled 

The  hostile  troops,  and  drove  them  on  in  rout. 

The  strength  of  ten  battalions  seemed  to  yield 

Before  his  arm  ;  and  so  he  won  that  field, 

And  slew  with  his  own  hand  the  vengeful  king, 

And  wUh  that  death-stroke  brought  the  war  to  end, 

Conquering  the  common  foe,  and  conquering 
The  hate,  from  which  he  would  not  else  defend 

His  clear  renown  than  with  such  manful  deeds 

As  fall  to  faith  and  valor  at  their  needs. 

Again  —  this  time  the  chaplet  was  his  own  — 
The  people  wreathed  their  laurels  for  his  brow ; 

His  horses  trod  on  flowers  ;  the  city  shone 
With  flags  of  victory  ;  and  none  but  now  — 

As  with  no  vaunting  mien  he  wore  his  bays  — 

Confessed  him  brave  as  good,  and  gave  their  praise. 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 


PEACE  smiled  anew  ;  the  kingdom  was  at  rest. 
Ah,  happy  Queen  !  whom  every  matron's  tongue 
Ran  envious  of,  with  such  a  consort  blest 

As  wins  the  heart  of  women,  old  and  young  ; 
So  gallant,  yet  so  good,  the  gentlest  maid 
By  this  fair  standard  her  own  suitor  weighed. 

I  hold  the  perfect  mating  of  two  souls, 
Through  wedded  love,  to  be  the  sum  of  bliss. 

When  Earth,  this  fruit  that  ripens  as  it  rolls 

In  sunlight,  grows  more  prime,  lives  will  not  miss 

Their  counterparts,  and  each  shall  find  its  own  ; 

But  now  with  what  blind  chance  the  lots 'are  thrown  ! 

And  because  Love  sets  with  a  rising  tide 
Along  the  drift  where  much  has  gone  before 

One  holds  of  worth,  —  we  lavish  first,  beside, 
Heart,  honors,  regal  gifts,  and  love  the  more 

When  yielding  most,  —  for  this  the  Queen's  love  knew 

No  slack,  but  still  its  current  deeper  grew. 

And  because  Love  is  free,  and  follows  not 
On  gratitude,  nor  comes  from  what  is  given 

So  much  as  on  the  giving  ;  and,  I  wot, 
Partly  because  it  irks  one  to  have  thriven 

At  hands  which  seem  the  weaker,  and  should  thrive 

While  those  of  him  they  cling  to  lift  and  strive  ; 

And  partly  that  his  marriage  seemed  a  height 
Which  raised  him  from  the  passions  of  our  kind, 

Nor  with  his  own  intent ;  and  that,  despite 
Its  clear  repose,  he  somehow  longed  to  find 

The  lower  world,  starve,  hunger,  and  be  fed 

With  joy  and  sorrow,  sweet  and  bitter  bread,  — 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 


207 


For  all  these  things  the  Prince  loved  not  the  Queen 
With  that  sufficience  which  alone  can  take 

A  rapture  in  itself  and  rest  serene  ; 

Yet  knew  not  what  his  life  lacked  that  should  make 

It  worth  to  live,  —  our  custom  has  such  art 

To  dull  the  craving  of  the  famished  heart,  — 

Perchance  had  never  known  it,  but  a  light 
Flashed  in  his  path  and  lit  a  fiery  train 

About  him  ;  else,  day  following  day,  and  night 
By  night,  through  years  his  soul  had  felt  no  pain, 

No  triumph,  but  had  shared  the  common  lull, 

Been  all  it  seemed,  as  blameless,  true,  and  dull. 

And  yet  in  one  fair  woman  beauty,  youth, 
And  passion  were  united,  and  her  love 

Was  framed  about  his  likeness.     Some,  forsooth, 
May  shift  their  changeful  worship  as  they  rove, 

Or  clowns  or  princes  ;  but  her  fancy  slept, 

Dreaming  upon  that  picture  which  she  kept, 

A  secret  pain  and  pleasance.     With  what  strife 
Men  sought  her  love  she  wist  not,  for  the  prize 

Was  not  for  them.     She  lived  a  duteous  life. 
'T  was  something  thus  to  let  her  constant  eyes 

Feed  on  his  face,  to  hear  his  name,  —  to  know 

He  lived,  had  walked  those  paths,  had  loved  her  so. 

There  is  a  painting  of  a  youthful  monk 

Who  sits  within  a  walled  and  cloistered  nook, 

His  breviary  closed,  and  listens,  sunk 
In  day-dreams,  to  a  viol,  —  with  a  look 

Of  strange  regret  fixed  on  two  pairing  doves, 

Who  find  their  fate  and  simple  natural  loves. 


208  THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 

Yet  bonds  of  gold,  linked  hands,  and  chancel  vows, 
Even  spousal  beds,  do  not  a  marriage  make. 

When  such  things  chain  the  soul  that  never  knows 
Love's  mating,  little  vantage  shall  it  take, 

Wandering  with  alien  feet  throughout  the  wide, 

Hushed  temple,  over  those  who  pine  outside  ! 

So  this  young  wife  forecast  her  horoscope 
And  found  its  wedded  lines  of  little  worth, 

Yet  owned  not  to  herself  what  hopekss  hope 
Or  dumb  intent  made  green  her  spot  of  earth. 

So  passed  three  changeless  years,  as  such  years  be ; 

At  last  the  old  lord  died,  and  left  her  free, 

The  mistress  of  his  rank  and  broad  estate, 
In  honor  of  her  constancy.     Then  life 

Rushed  back  ;  she  saw  her  beauty  grown  more  great, 
Ripened  as  if  a  summer  field  were  rife 

With  grain,  the  harvester  neglectful,  since 

Hers  was  no  mean  desire  that  sought  a  prince, 

Eager  to  make  his  birth  and  bloom  her  own, 
Or  reign  a  wanton  favorite.  But  she  thought, 

"  I  might  have  loved  and  clung  to  him  alone, 
Am  fairer  than  he  knew  me  ;  yet,  if  aught 

Of  rarity  make  sweet  my  hair  and  lips, 

What  sweetness  hath  the  honey  that  none  sips  ?  " 

After  her  time  of  mourning  she  grew  bold, 
And  said,  "  Once  let  me  look  upon  his  face  ! 

The  Queen  will  take  no  harm  if  I  behold 

What  all  the  world  can  see."     She  left  her  place, 

And  with  a  kinsman,  at  a  palace  rout, 

Followed  the  long  line  passing  in  and  out 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE.  209 

Before  the  dais.     The  Prince's  eyes  and  hers 
Met  like  the  clouds  that  lighten.     In  a  breath 

Swift  memory  flamed  between  them,  as,  when  stirs 
No  wind,  and  the  dark  sky  is  still  as  death, 

One  lance  of  living  fire  is  hurled  across  ; 

Then  comes  the  whirlwind,  and  the  forests  toss  ! 

Yet  as  she  bent  her  beauteous  shoulders  down, 
And  heard  the  kindly  greeting  of  the  Queen, 

He  spoke  such  words  as  one  who  wears  a  crown 
Speaks,  and  no  more  ;  and  with  a  low,  proud  mien 

She  murmured  answer,  from  the  presence  past 

Lightly,  nor  any  look  behind  her  cast. 

In  that  first  glimpse  each  read  the  other's  heart ; 

But  not  without  a  summoning  of  himself 
To  judgment  did  the  Prince  forever  part 

From  truth  and  fealty.     As  he  pondered,  still 
With  stronger  voice  Love  claimed  a  debt  unpaid, 
And  youth's  hot  pulses  would  not  be  gainsaid. 

She  with  a  fierce,  full  gladness  saw  again 
Their  broken  threads  of  love  begin  to  spin 

In  one  red  strand,  and  let  it  guide  her  then, 
Whether  it  led  to  danger  or  to  sin  ; 

And  shortly,  on  the  morrow,  took  the  road, 

And  gained  her  country-seat,  and  there  abode. 

The  Prince,  a  bright  near  morning,  mounted  horse, 
Garbed  for  the  hunt,  and  left  the  town,  and  through 

The  deep-pathed  wood  rode  on  a  wayward  course, 
With  a  set  purpose  in  him,  —  though  he  knew 

It  not,  and  let  his  steed  go  where  it  might ; 

For  this  sole  thought  pursued  him  since  that  night :  — 

N 


2io  THE  BLAMELESS  PRIA'CE. 

"  What  recompense  for  me  who  have  not  sown 
The  seed  and  reaped  the  harvest  of  my  days  ? 

Youth  passes  like  a  bird  ;  but  love  alone 

Makes  wealth  of  riches,  power  of  rank,  men's  praise 

A  goodly  sound.     Of  such  things  have  I  aught  ? 

There  is  a  foil  to  make  their  substance  naught. 

"  What  were  his  gifts  who  made  each  lovely  thing, 
Yet  lacked  the  gift  of  love  ?  or  what  the  fame 

Of  some  dwarfed  poet,  whose  numbers  still  we  sing, 
If  no  fair  woman  trembled  where  he  came  ? 

The  beggar  dying  in  ditch  is  not  accurst 

If  love  once  crowned  him  !     Fate  may  do  her  worst. 

"  For  Age  that  erst  has  drawn  the  wine  of  love 
And  filled  its  birth-cup  to  the  jewelled  brim, 

And,  while  it  sparkled,  held  it  high  above, 

And  drained  it  slowly,  swiftly,  —  then,  though  dim 

Grow  the  blurred  eyes,  and  comfort  and  desire 

Are  but  the  ashes  of  their  ancient  fire, 

"  Yet  will  it  bide  its  exit  in  content, 

Remembering  the  past,  nor  grudge,  with  hoar 

And  ravenous  look,  the  youth  we  have  not  spent. 
No  earthly  sting  has  power  to  harm  it  more  ; 

It  lived  and  loved,  was  young,  and  now  is  old, 

And  life  is  rounded  like  a  ring  of  gold." 

Thereat  with  sudden  rein  the  Prince  wheeled  horse, 
And  sought  a  pathway  that  he  long  had  known 

Yet  shunned  till  now.     Beside  a  water-course 
It  led  him  for  a  winding  league  and  lone ; 

Then  made  a  rugged  circuit,  —  where  the  brook 

Down  a  steep  ledge  of  rock  its  plunges  took, — 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE.  2I1 

And  ended  at  an  open  sward,  the  same 

Against  whose  edge  the  leaping  cataract  fell 

From  those  high  cliffs.     Five  years  ago  he  came 
To  bury  youth  and  love  within  that  dell, 

And,  as  again  he  reached  the  spot  he  sought, 

Truth,  fame,  his  child,  the  Queen,  were  all  as  naught 

Dismounting  then,  he  pushed  afoot,  between 

The  alder  saplings,  to  the  outer  wood, 
The  grounds,  the  garden-walks,  and  found,  unseen, 

A  private  door,  nor  tarried  till  he  stood 
Within  the  threshold  of  my  Lady's  room,  — 
A  shadowed  nook,  all  stillness  and  perfume. 

Jasmine  and  briony  the  lattice  climbed, 
The  rose  and  honeysuckle  trailed  above  ; 

'T  was  such  an  hour  as  poets  oft  have  rhymed, 
And  such  a  chamber  as  all  lovers  love. 

He  found  her  there,  and  at  her  footstool  knelt. 

Each  in  the  other's  fancies  had  so  dwelt, 

That,  as  one  sees  for  days  a  sweet  strange  face, 
Until  at  night  in  dreams  he  does  caress 

Its  owner,  and  next  morning  in  some  place 
Meets  her,  and  wonders  if  she  too  can  guess 

How  near  and  known  he  thinks  her,  —  in  this  wise 

They  read  one  story  in  each  other's  eyes. 

Her  thick  hair  falling  from  its  lilies  hid 

Their  first  long  kiss  of  passion  and  content. 

He  heard  her  soft,  glad  murmur,  as  she  slid 
Within  his  hold,  and  'gainst  his  bosom  leant, 

Whispering  :  "  At  last !  at  last !  the  years  were  sore.x 

"  Their  spite,"  he  said,  "  shall  do  us  wrong  no  more  !  " 


212  THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 

What  else,  when  mingled  longings  swell  full-tide, 
And  the  heart's  surges  leap  their  bounds  for  aye, 

And  fell  the  landmarks  ?     What  but  fate  defied, 
Time  clutched,  and  any  future  held  at  bay  ? 

They  recked  not  of  the  thorn,  but  seized  the  flower  ; 

For  all  the  sin,  their  joy  was  great  that  hour. 

And  since,  for  all  the  joy,  theirs  was  a  sin 

That  baned  them  with  one  bane  ;  since  many  men 

Had  sought  her  love,  but  one  alone  could  win 
That  largess,  with  his  blameless  life  till  then 

Inviolate,  —  they  bargained  for  love's  sake 

No  severance  of  their  covert  league  to  make. 

Yet,  since  nobility  compelled  them  still, 

They  pledged  themselves  for  honor's  sake  to  hold 

This  hidden  unto  death  ;  at  cither's  will 
To  meet  and  part  in  secret  ;  to  infold 

In  their  own  hearts  their  trespass  and  delight, 

Nor  look  their  love,  but  guard  it  day  or  night. 


O  O  fell  the  blameless  Prince.     That  day  more  late 
V-J   Than  wont  he  reached  the  presence  of  the  Queen, 
Deep  in  a  palace  chamber,  where  she  sate 

Fondling  his  child.     The  sunset  lit  her  mien, 
And  made  a  saintly  glory  in  her  hair ; 
An  awe  came  on  him  as  he  saw  her  there. 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE.  213 

And,  because  perfect  love  suspecteth  not, 

She  found  no  blot  upon  his  brow.     'T  was  good 

To  take  a  pleasure  in  her  wedded  lot, 

And  watch  the  infant  creeping  where  he  stood  ; 

And,  as  he  bent  his  head,  she  little  wist 

What  kisses  burned  upon  the  lips  she  kissed. 

And  he,  still  kind  and  wise  in  his  decline, 
*  Seeing  her  trustful  calm,  had  little  heart 
To  shake  it.     So  his  conduct  gave  no  sign 
Of  broken  faith  ;  no  slurring  of  his  part 
Betrayed  him  to  the  courtiers  or  the  wife. 
Perhaps  a  second  spring-time  in  his  life 

Waxed  green,  and  fresh-bloomed  love  renewed  again 
The  joys  that  light  our  youth  and  leave  our  prime, 

And  women  found  him  tenderer,  and  men 
A  blither,  heartier  comrade  ;  but,  meantime, 

What  hidden  gladness  made  his  visage  bright 

They  could  not  guess  ;    nor.  with  what  craft  and  sleight 

The  paramours,  in  fealty  to  that  Love 

Who  laughs  at  locks  and  walks  in  hooded  guise, 

Met  here  and  there,  yet  made  no  careless  move 
Nor  bared  their  strategy  to  cunning  eyes. 

And  though,  a  portion  of  the  winter  year, 

The  Queen's  own  summons  brought  her  rival  near 

The  Prince,  among  the  ladies  of  her  train, 

Then,  meeting  face  to  face  at  morn  and  night, 

They  were  as  strangers.  If  it  was  a  pain 
To  pass  so  coldly  on,  in  love's  despite, 

It  was  a  joy  to  hear  each  other's  tone, 

And  keep  the  life-long  secret  still  their  own. 


214 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 


Once  having  dipped  their  palms  they  drank  full  draught, 
And,  like  the  desert-parched,  alone  at  first 

Felt  the  delight  of  drinking,  while  they  quaffed 
As  if  the  waters  could  not  slake  their  thirst ; 

That  nicer  sense  unreached,  when  down  we  fling, 

And  view  the  oasis  around  the  spring. 

And,  in  that  first  bewilderment,  perchance 

The  Prince's  lapse  had  caught  some  peering  eye,  - 

But  that  his  long  repute,  and  maintenance 
Against  each  test,  had  put  suspicion  by. 

Now  no  one  watched  or  doubted  him.     So  long 

His  inner  strength  had  made  his  outwork  strong, 

So  long  had  smoothed  his  face,  't  was  light  to  take, 
From  what  had  been  his  blamelessness,  a  mask. 

And  still,  for  honor's  and  the  country's  sake, 
He  set  his  hands  to  every  noble  task ; 

Held  firmly  yet  his  place  among  the  great, 

Won  by  the  sword  and  saviour  of  the  state  ; 

And  as  in  war,  so  now  in  civic  peace, 

He  led  the  people  on  to  higher  things, 
And  fostered  Art  and  Song,  and  brought  increase 

Of  Knowledge,  gave  to  Commerce  broader  wings, 
And  with  his  action  strengthened  fourfold  more 
The  weight  his  precept  in  their  councils  bore. 

Then  as  the  mellow  years  their  fruitage  brought, 
And  fair  strong  children  made  secure  the  throne, 

He  reared  them  wisely,  needfully  ;  and  sought 
Their  good,  the  Queen's  desire,  and  these  alone. 

Himself  so  pure,  that  fathers  bade  their  sons, 

"  Observe  the  Prince,  who  every  license  shuns  ; 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE.  21$ 

"Who,  being  most  brave,  is  purest !  "    Wedded  wives, 
Happy  themselves,  the  Queen  still  happiest  found, 

And  plighted  maids  still  wished  their  lovers'  lives 
Conformed  to  his.     Such  manhood  wrapt  him  round, 

So  winsome  were  his  grace  and  knightly  look, 

The  dames  at  court  their  lesser  spoil  forsook, 

And  wove  a  net  to  snare  him,  and  their  mood 
Grew  warmer  for  his  coldness  ;  and  the  hearts 

Of  those  most  heartless  beat  with  quicker  blood, 
Foiled  of  his  love  ;  yet,  heedless  of  their  arts, 

Courteous  to  all,  he  went  his  way  content, 

Nor  ever  from  his  princely  station  bent. 

"  What  is  this  charm,"  they  asked,  "  that  makes  him 
chaste 

Beyond  all  men  ?  "  and  wist  not  what  they  said. 
The  common  folk,  —  because  the  Prince  had  cased 

His  limbs  in  silver  mail,  and  on  his  head 
Worn  snowy  plumes,  and,  covered  thus  in  white, 
Shone  in  the  fiercest  turmoil  of  the  fight ; 

And  mostly  for  the  whiteness  of  his  soul, 

Which  seemed  so  virginal  and  all  unblurred,  — 

They  called  him  the  White  Prince,  and  through  the  whole 
True  land  the  name  became  a  household  word. 

"  God  save  the  Queen  !  "  the  loyal  people  sung, 

"  And   the  White    Prince  !  "   came   back  from   every 
tongue. 

So  passed  the  stages  of  a  glorious  reign. 

The  Queen  in  tranquil  goodness  reached  her  noon  ; 
The  Prince  wore  year  by  year  his  double  chain  ; 

His  mistress  kept  her  secret  like  the  moon, 
That  hides  one  half  its  splendor  and  its  shade  ; 
And  newer  times  and  men  their  entrance  made. 


2i6  THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 

But  did  these  two,  who  took  their  secret  fill 

Of  stolen  waters,  find  the  greater  bliss 
They  sought  ?     At  first,  to  meet  and  part  at  will 

Was,  for  the  peril's  sake,  a  happiness  ; 
Ay,  even  the  sense  of  guilt  made  such  delights 
More  worth,  as  one  we  call  the  wisest  writes. 

But  with  the  later  years  Time  brought  about 
His  famed  revenges.     Not  that  love  grew  cold, 

The  lady  never  found  a  cause  to  doubt 

That  with  the  Prince  his  passion  kept  its  hold  ; 

And  while  their  loved  are  loyal  to  them  yet, 

'T  is  not  the  wont  of  women  to  regret. 

Yet 't  was  her  lot  to  live  as  one  whose  wealth 

Is  in  another's  name  ;  to  sigh  at  fate 
That  hedged  her  from  possession,  save  by  stealth 

And  trespass  on  the  guileless  Queen's  estate ; 
To  see  her  lover  farthest  when  most  near, 
Nor  dare  before  the  world  to  make  him  dear. 

To  see  her  perfect  beauty  but  a  lure, 

That  made  men  list  to  follow  where  she  went, 

And  kneel  to  woo  the  hand  they  deemed  so  pure, 
And  hunger  for  her  pitying  mouth's  consent ; 

Calling  her  hard,  who  was  so  gently  made, 

Nor  found  delight  in  all  their  homage  paid. 

Nor  ever  yet  was  woman's  life  complete 
Till  at  her  breast  the  child  of  him  she  loved 

Made  life  and  love  one  name.     Though  love  be  sweet, 
And  passing  sweet,  till  then  its  growth  has  proved 

In  woman's  paradise  a  sterile  tree, 

Fruitless,  though  fair  its  leaves  and  blossoms  be. 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 


217 


Meanwhile  the  Prince  put  on  his  own  disguise, 
Holding  it  naught  for  what  it  kept  secure, 

Nor  wore  it  only  in  his  comrades'  eyes  ; 
Beneath  this  cloak  and  seeming  to  be  pure 

He  felt  the  thing  he  seemed.     For  some  brief  space 

His  conscience  took  the  reflex  of  his  face. 

But  lastly  through  his  heart  there  crept  a  sense 
Of  falseness,  like  a  worm  about  the  core, 

Until  he  grew  to  loathe  the  long  pretence 

Of  blamelessness,  and  would  the  mask  he  wore 

By  some  swift  judgment  from  his  face  were  torn, 

So  might  the  outer  quell  the  inner  scorn. 

Such  self-contempt  befell  him,  when  the  feast 

Rang  with  his  praise,  he  blushed  from  nape  to  crown, 

And  ground  his  teeth  in  silence,  yet  had  ceased 
To  bear  it,  crying,  "  Crush  me  not  quite  down, 

Who  ask  your  scorn,  as  viler  than  you  deem 

Your  vilest,  and  am  nothing  that  I  seem  !  " 

With  such  a  cry  his  conscience  riotous 

Had  thrown,  perchance,  the  burden  on  it  laid, 

But  love  and  pity  held  his  voice ;  and  thus 
The  paramours  their  constant  penance  made ; 

False  to  themselves,  before  the  world  a  lie, 

Yet  each  for  each  had  cast  the  whole  world  by. 

In  those  transcendent  moments,  when  the  fire 
Leapt  up  between  them  rapturous  and  bright, 

One  incompleteness  bred  a  wild  desire 
To  let  the  rest  have  token  of  its  light  ; 

So  natural  seemed  their  love,  —  so  hapless,  too, 

They  might  not  make  it  glorious  to  view, 
10 


2i8  THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 

And  speak  their  joy.     'T  was  all  as  they  had  come, 
They  two,  in  some  far  wildwood  wandering  mazed, 

Upon  a  mighty  cataract,  whose  foam 
And  splendor  ere  that  time  had  never  dazed 

Men's  eyes,  nor  any  hearing  save  their  own 

Could  listen  to  its  immemorial  moan, 

And  felt  amid  their  triumph  bitter  pain 

That  only  for  themselves  was  spread  that  sight. 

Oft,  when  his  comrades  sang  a  tender  strain, 
And  music,  talk,  and  wine,  outlasted  night, 

Rose  in  the  Prince's  throat  this  sudden  tide, 

"  And  I,  —  I  also  know  where  Love  doth  hide  !  " 

Yet  still  the  seals  were  ever  on  his  mouth  ; 

No  heart,  save  one,  his  joy  and  dole  might  share. 
Passed  on  the  winter's  rain  and  summer's  drouth  ; 

Friends  more  and  more,  and  lovers  true,  the  pair, 
Though  life  its  passion  and  its  youth  had  spent, 
Still  kept  their  faith  as  seasons  came  and  went. 


ON"E  final  hour,  with  stammering  voice  and  halt, 
The  Prince  said  :  "  Dear,  for  you,  —  whose  only 

gain 
Was  in  your  love  that  made  such  long  default 

To  self,  —  Heaven  deems  you  sinless  !  but  a  pain 
Is  on  my  soul,  and  shadow  of  guilt  threefold  : 
First,  in  your  fair  life,  fettered  by  my  hold  ; 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE.  219 

"  Then  in  the  ceaseless  wrong  I  do  the  Queen, 
Who  worships  me,  unknowing ;  worse  than  all, 

To  wear  before  the  world  this  painted  mien  ! 
See  to  it :  on  my  head  some  bolt  will  fall  ! 

We  have  sweet  memories  of  the  good  years  past, 

Now  let  this  secret  league  no  longer  last." 

So  of  her  love  and  pure  unselfishness 

She  yielded  at  his  word,  yet  fain  would  pray 

For  one  more  tryst,  one  day  of  tenderness, 

Where  first  their  lives  were  mated.     Such  a  day 

Found  them  entwined  together,  met  to  part, 

Lips  pressed  to  lips,  and  voiceless  grief  at  heart. 

And  last  the  Prince  drew  off  his  signet-stone, 
And  gave  it  to  his  mistress,  —  as  he  rose 

To  shut  the  book  of  happy  moments  gone, 
For  so  all  earthly  pleasures  find  a  close,  — 

Yet  promised,  at  her  time  of  utmost  need 

And  summons  by  that  token,  to  take  heed 

And  do  her  will.     "  And  from  this  hour,"  he  said, 
"  No  woman's  kiss  save  one  my  lips  shall  know." 

So  left  her  pale  and  trembling  there,  and  fled, 
Nor  looked  again,  resolved  it  must  be  so  ; 

But  somewhere  gained  his  horse,  and  through  the  wood 

Moved  homeward  with  his  thoughts,  a  phantom  brood 

That  turned  the  long  past  over  in  his  mind, 

Poising  its  good  and  evil,  while  a  haze 
Gathered  around  him,  of  that  sombre  kind 

Which  follows  from  a  place  where  many  days 
Have  seen  us  go  and  come  ;  and  even  if  sore 
Has  been  our  sojourn  there,  we  feel  the  more 


220 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 


That  parting  is  a  sorrow,  —  though  we  part 
With  those  who  loved  us  not,  or  go  forlorn 

From  pain  that  ate  its  canker  in  the  heart ; 

But  when  we  leave  the  paths  where  Love  has  borne 

His  garlands  to  us,  Pleasure  poured  her  wine, 

Where  life  was  wholly  precious  and  divine, 

Then  go  we  forth  as  exiles.     In  such  wise 

The  loath,  wan  Prince  his  homeward  journey  made, 

Brooding,  and  marked  not  with  his  downcast  eyes 
The  shadow  that  within  the  coppice  shade 

Sank  darker  still ;  but  at  the  horse's  gait 

Kept  slowly  on,  and  rode  to  meet  his  fate. 

For  from  the  west  a  silent  gathering  drew, 

And  hid  the  summer  sky,  and  brought  swift  night 

Across  that  shire,  and  went  devouring  through 
The  strong  old  forest,  stronger  in  its  might. 

With  the  first  sudden  crash  the  Prince's  steed 

Took  the  long  stride,  and  galloped  at  good  need. 

The  wild  pace  tallied  with  the  rider's  mood, 
And  on  he  spurred,  and  even  now  had  reached 

The  storm  that  charged  the  borders  of  the  wood, 
When   one  great   whirlwind   seized    an    oak  which 
bleached 

Across  his  path,  and  felled  it  ;  and  its  fall 

Bore  down  the  Prince  beneath  it,  horse  and  all. 

There  lay  he  as  he  fell ;  but  the  mad  horse 

Plunged  out  in  fright,  and  reared  upon  his  feet, 

And  for  the  city  struck  a  headlong  course, 
With  clatter  of  hoof  along  the  central  street, 

Nor  halted  till,  thus  masterless  and  late, 

Bleeding  and  torn,  he  reached  the  palace-gate. 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE.  22 1 

Then  rose  a  clamor  and  the  tidings  spread, 
And  servitors  and  burghers  thronged  about, 

Crying,  "  The  Prince's  horse  !  the  Prince  is  dead  !  " 
Till  on  the  courser's  track  they  sallied  out, 

And  came  upon  the  fallen  oak,  and  found 

The  Prince  sore  maimed  and  senseless  on  the  ground. 

Then  wattling  boughs,  they  raised  him  in  their  hold, 

And  after  that  rough  litter,  and  before, 
The  people  went  in  silence ;  but  there  rolled 

A  fiery  vapor  from  the  lights  they  bore, 
Like  some  red  serpent  huge  along  the  road. 
Even  thus  they  brought  him  back  to  his  abode. 

There  the  pale  Queen  fell  on  him  at  the  porch, 
Dabbling  her  robes  in  blood,  and  made  ado, 

And  over  all  his  henchman  held  a  torch, 

Until  with  reverent  steps  they  took  him  through  ; 

And  the  doors  closed,  and  midnight  from  the  domes 

Was  sounded,  and  the  people  sought  their  homes. 

But  on  the  morrow,  like  a  dreadful  bird, 
Flew  swift  the  tidings  of  this  sudden  woe, 

And  reached  the  Prince's  paramour,  who  heard 
Aghast,  as  one  who  crieth  loud,  "  The  blow 

Is  fallen  !  I  am  the  cause  !  "  —  as  one  who  saith, 

"  Now  let  me  die,  whose  hands  have  given  death  !  " 

So  gat  her  to  the  town  remorsefully, 
White  with  a  mortal  tremor  and  the  sin 

Which  sealed  her  mouth,  and  waited  what  might  be, 
And  watched  the  doors  she  dared  not  pass  within. 

Alas,  poor  lady  !  that  lone  week  of  fears 

Outlived  the  length  of  all  her  former  years. 


222  THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 

Some  days  the  Prince,  upon  the  skirts  of  death, 

Spake  not  a  word  nor  heard  the  Queen's  one  prayer, 

Nor  turned  his  face,  nor  felt  her  loving  breath, 
Nor  saw  his  children  when  they  gathered  there, 

But  rested  dumb  and  motionless  ;  and  so 

The  Queen  grew  weak  with  watching  and  her  woe, 

Till  from  his  bed  they  bore  her  to  her  own 

A  little.     In  the  middle-tide  of  night, 
Thereafter,  he  awoke  with  moan  on  moan, 

And  saw  his  death  anigh,  and  said  outright, 
"  I  had  all  things,  but  love  was  worth  them  all ! " 
Then  sped  they  for  the  Queen,  yet  ere  the  call 

Reached  her,  he  cried  once  more,  "  Too  late  !  too  late  !  " 
And  at  those  words,  before  they  led  her  in, 

Came  the  sure  dart  of  him  that  lay  in  wait. 

The  Prince  was  dead  :  what  goodness  and  what  sin 

Died  with  him  were  untold.     At  sunrise  fell 

Across  the  capital  his  solemn  knell. 

All  respite  it  forbade,  and  joyance  thence, 
To  one  for  whom  his  passion  till  the  last 

Wrought  in  the  dying  Prince.     Her  wan  suspense 
Thus  ended,  a  great  fear  upon  her  passed. 

"  I  was  the  cause  !  "  she  moaned  from  day  to  day, 

"  Now  let  me  bear  the  penance  as  I  may  !  " 

So  with  her  whole  estate  she  sought  and  gained 

A  refuge  in  a  nunnery  close  at  view, 
And  there  for  months  withdrew  her,  and  remained 

In  tears  and  prayers.     Anon  a  sickness  grew 
Upon  her,  and  her  face  the  ghost  became 
Of  what  it  was,  the  same  and  not  the  same. 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE.  22$ 

SO  died  the  blameless  Prince.     The  spacious  land 
Was  smitten  in  his  death,  and  such  a  wail 
Arose,  as  when  the  midnight  angel's  hand 

Was  laid  on  Egypt.     Gossips  ceased  their  tale, 
Or  whispered  of  his  goodness,  and  were  mute  ; 
No  sound  was  heard  of  viol  or  of  lute  ; 

The  streets  were  hung  with  black  ;  the  artisan 
Forsook  his  forge  ;  the  artist  dropped  his  brush  ; 

The  tradesmen  closed  their  windows.     Man  with  man 
Struck  hands  together  in  the  first  deep  hush 

Of  grief ;  or,  where  the  dead  Prince  lay  in  state, 

Spoke  of  his  life,  so  blameless,  pure,  and  great. 

But  when,  within  the  dark  cathedral  vault, 
They  joined  his  ashes  to  the  dust  of  kings, 

No  royal  pomp  was  shown  ;  for  Death  made  halt 
Above  the  palace  yet,  on  dusky  wings, 

Waiting  to  gain  the  Queen,  who  still  was  prone 

Along  the  couch  where  haply  she  had  thrown, 

At  knowledge  of  the  end,  her  stricken  frame. 

With  visage  pale  as  in  a  mortal  swound 
She  stayed,  nor  slept,  nor  wept,  till,  weeping,  came 

The  crown-prince  and  besought  her  to  look  round 
And  speak  unto  her  children.     Then  she  said: 
"  Hereto  no  grief  has  fallen  on  our  head  ; 

"  Now  all  our  earthly  portion  in  one  mass 
Is  loosed  against  us  with  this  single  stroke  ! 

Yet  we  are  Queen,  and  still  must  live,  —  alas  !  — 
As  he  would  have  us."     Even  as  she  spoke 

She  wept,  and  mended  thence,  yet  bore  the  face 

Of  one  whose  fate  delays  but  for  a  space. 


224 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 


Thenceforth  she  worked  and  waited  till  the  call 
Of  Heaven  should  close  the  labor  and  the  pause. 

Months,  seasons  passed,  yet  evermore  a  pall 

Hung  round  the  court.     The  sorrow  and  the  cause 

Were  always  with  her  ;  after  things  were  tame 

Beside  the  shadow  of  his  deeds  and  fame. 

Her  palaces  and  parks  seemed  desolate  ; 

No  joy  was  left  in  sky  or  street  or  field  ; 
No  age,  she  thought,  would  see  the  Prince's  mate  : 

What  matchless  hand  his  knightly  sword  could  wield  ? 
The  world  had  lost,  this  royal  widow  said, 
Its  one  bright  jewel  when  the  Prince  was  dead. 

So  that  his  fame  might  be  enduring  there 

For  many  a  reign,  and  sacred  through  the  land, 

She  gathered  bronze  and  lazuli,  and  rare 

Swart  marbles,  while  her  cunning  artists  planned 

A  stately  cenotaph,  —  and  bade  them  place 

Above  its  front  the  Prince's  form  and  face, 

Sculptured,  as  if  in  life.  But  the  pale  Queen, 
Watching  the  work  herself,  would  somewhat  lure 

Her  heart  from  plaining  ;  till,  behind  a  screen, 
The  tomb  was  finished,  glorious  and  pure, 

Even  like  the  Prince  :  and  they  proclaimed  a  day 

When  the  Queen's  hand  should  draw  its  veil  away. 

It  chanced,  the  noon  before,  she  bade  them  fetch 
Her  equipage,  and  with  her  children  rode 

Beyond  the  city  walls,  across  a  stretch 
Of  the  green  open  country,  where  abode 

Her  subjects,  happy  in  the  field  and  grange, 

And  with  their  griefs,  that  took  a  meaner  range, 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE.  22$ 

Content.     But  as  her  joyless  vision  dwelt 
On  beauty  that  so  failed  her  wound  to  heal, 

She  marked  the  Abbey's  ancient  pile,  and  felt 
A  longing  at  its  chapel-shrine  to  kneel, 

To  pray,  and  think  awhile  on  Heaven,  — her  one 

Sole  passion,  now  the  Prince  had  thither  gone. 

She  reached  the  gate,  and  through  the  vestibule 
The  nuns,  with  reverence  for  the  royal  sorrow, 

Led  to  the  shrine,  and  left  her  there  to  school 
Her  heart  for  that  sad  pageant  of  the  morrow. 

O,  what  deep  sighs,  what  piteous  tearful  prayers, 

What  golden  grief-blanched  hair  strewn  unawares  ! 

Anon  her  coming  through  the  place  was  sped, 
And  when  from  that  lone  ecstasy  she  rose 

The  saintly  Abbess  held  her  steps,  and  said  : 
"  God  rests  those,  daughter,  who  in  others'  woes 

Forget  their  own  !     In  yonder  corridor 

A  sister-sufferer  lies,  and  will  no  more 

"  Pass  through  her  door  to  catch  the  morning's  breath, — 
A  worldling  once,  the  chamberlain's  young  wife, 

But  now  a  pious  novice,  meet  for  death  ; 

She  prays  to  see  your  face  once  more  in  life." 

"  She,  too,  is  widowed,"  thought  the  Queen.     Aloud 

She  answered,  "  I  will  visit  her,"  and  bowed 

Her  head,  and,  following,  reached  the  room  where  lay 
One  that  had  wronged  her  so  ;  and  shrank  to  see 

That  beauteous  pallid  face,  so  pined  away, 
And  the  starved  lips  that  murmured  painfully, 

"  I  have  a  secret  none  but  she  may  hear." 

At  the  Queen's  sign,  they  two  were  left  anear. 
10*  o 


226  THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 

With  that  the  dying  rushed  upon  her  speech, 

As  one  condemned,  who  gulps  the  poisoned  wine 

Nor  pauses,  lest  to  see  it  stand  at  reach 

Were  crueller  still.     "  Madam,  I  sought  a  sign," 

She  cried,  "  to  know  if  God  would  have  me  make 

Confession,  and  to  you  !  now  let  me  take 

"  This  meeting  as  the  sign,  and  speak,  and  die  !  " 
"  Child,"  said  the  Queen,  "  your  years  are  yet  too  few. 

See  how  I  live,  —  and  yet  what  sorrows  lie 

About  my  heart."  —  "I  know,  —  the  world  spake  true! 

You  too  have  loved  him  ;  ay,  he  seems  to  stand 

Between  us  !     Queen,  you  had  the  Prince's  hand, 

"  But  not  his  love  !  "     Across  the  good  Queen's  brow 
A  flame  of  anger  reddened,  as  when  one 

Meets  unprepared  a  swift  and  ruthless  blow, 
But  instant  paled  to  pity,  as  she  thought, 

"  She  wanders  :  't  is  the  fever  at  her  brain  !  " 

And  looked  her  thought.     The  other  cried  again  : 

"  Yes  !     I  am  ill  of  body  and  soul  indeed, 

Yet  this  was  as  I  say.     O,  not  for  me 
Pity,  from  you  who  wear  the  widow's  weed, 

Unknowing  !  "  —  "  Woman,  whose  could  that  love  be, 
If  not  all  mine  ? "     The  other,  with  a  moan, 
Rose  in  her  bed  ;  the  pillow,  backward  thrown, 

Was  darkened  with  the  torrent  of  her  hair. 

"  'T  was  hers,"  she  wailed,  —  "  't  was  hers  who  loved 

him  best." 
Then  tore  apart  her  night-robe,  and  laid  bare 

Her  flesh,  and  lo  !  against  her  poor  white  breast 
Close  round  her  gloomed  a  shift  of  blackest  serge, 
Fearful,  concealed  !  —  "I  might  not  sing  his  dirge," 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE.  22J 

She  said,  "  nor  moan  aloud  and  bring  him  shame, 
Nor  haunt  his  tomb  and  cling  about  the  grate, 

But  this  I  fashioned  when  the  tidings  came 
That  he  was  dead  and  I  must  expiate, 

Being  left,  our  double  sin  !  "  —  In  the  Queen's  heart, 

The  tiger —  that  is  prisoned  at  life's  start 

In  mortals,  though  perchance  it  never  wakes 

From  its  mute  sleep  —  began  to  rouse  and  crawl. 

Her  lips  grew  white,  and  on  her  nostrils  flakes 
Of  wrath  and  loathing  stood.     "  What,  now,  is  all 

This  wicked  drivel  ?"  she  cried  ;  "how  dare  they  bring 

The  Queen  to  listen  to  so  foul  a  thing  ?  " 

"  Queen  !  I  speak  truth,  — the  truth,  I  say  !     He  fed 
Upon  these  lips,  —  this  hair  he  loved  to  praise  ! 

I  held  within  these  arms  his  bright  fair  head 

Pressed  close,  ah,  close  !  —  Our  lifetimes  were  the  days 

We  met,  —  the  rest  a  void  !  "  —  "  Thou  spectral  Sin, 

Be  silent !  or,  if  such  a  thing  hath  been,  — 

"  If  this  be  not  thy  frenzy,  —  quick,  the  proof, 

Before  I  score  the  lie  thy  lips  amid  ! " 
She  spoke  so  dread  the  other  crouched  aloof, 

Panting,  but  with  gaunt  hands  somewhere  undid 
A  knot  within  her  hair,  and  thence  she  took 
The  signet-ring  and  passed  it.     The  Queen's  look 

Fell  on  it,  and  that  moment  the  strong  stay, 
Which  held  her  from  the  instinct  of  her  wrong, 

Broke,  and  therewith  the  whole  device  gave  way, 
The  grand  ideal  she  had  watched  so  long  : 

As  if  a  tower  should  fall,  and  on  the  plain 

Only  a  scathed  and  broken  pile  remain. 


228  THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 

But  in  its  stead  she  would  not  measure  yet 
The  counter-chance,  nor  deem  this  sole  attaint 

Made  the  Prince  less  than  one  in  whom  't  was  set 
To  prove  him  man.     "  I  held  him  as  a  saint," 

She  thought,  "  no  other  :  —  of  all  men  alone 

My  blameless  one  !     Too  high  my  faith  had  flown  : 

"  So  be  it !  "     With  a  sudden  bitter  scorn 

She  said  :  "  You  were  his  plaything,  then  !  the  food 

Wherewith  he  dulled  what  appetite  is  born, 
Of  the  gross  kind,  in  men.     His  nobler  mood 

You  knew  not !     How,  shall  I,  — the  fountain  life 

Of  yonder  children,  —  his  embosomed  wife 

"  Through  all  these  years,  —  shall  I,  his  Queen,  for  this 
Sin-smitten  harlot's  gage  of  an  hour's  shame, 

Misdoubt  him  ?  " —  "Yes,  I  was  his  harlot,  —  yes, 
God  help  me  !  and  had  worn  the  loathly  name 

Before  the  world,  to  have  him  in  that  guise  !  " 

"  Thou  strumpet !  wilt  thou  have  me  of  his  prize 

"  Rob  Satan  ? "  cried  the  Queen,  and  one  step  moved. 

"  Queen,  if  you  loved  him,  save  me  from  your  bane, 
As  something  that  was  dear  to  him  you  loved  !  " 

Then  from  beneath  her  serge  she  took  the  chain 
Which,  long  ago  in  that  lone  wood,  the  Prince 
Hung  round  her,  —  she  had  never  loosed  it  since, — 

And  gave  therewith  the  face  which,  in  its  years 
Of  youthful,  sunniest  grace,  a  limner  drew ; 

And  unsigned  letters,  darkened  with  her  tears, 
Writ  in  the  hand  that  hapless  sovereign  knew 

Too  well ;  —  then  told  the  whole,  strange,  secret  tale, 

As  if  with  Heaven  that  penance  could  avail, 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE.  229 

Or  with  the  Queen,  who  heard  as  idols  list 

The   mad   priest's   cry,  nor  changed  her  place  nor 
moaned, 

But,  clutching  those  mute  tokens  of  each  tryst, 
Hid  them  about  her.     But  the  other  groaned  : 

"  The  picture,  —  let  me  see  it  ere  I  die,  — 

Then  take  them  all !  once,  only  !  "  —  At  that  cry 

The  Queen  strode  forward  with  an  awful  stride, 
And  seized  the  dying  one,  and  bore  her  down, 

And  rose  her  height,  and  said,  "  Thou  shouldst  have  died 
Ere  telling  this,  nor  I  have  worn  a  crown 

To  hear  it  told.     I  am  of  God  accurst  ! 

Of  all  his  hated,  may  he  smite  thee  first  !  " 

With  that  wild  speech  she  fled,  nor  looked  behind, 
Hasting  to  get  her  from  that  fearful  room, 

Past  the  meek  nuns  in  wait.     These  did  not  find 

The  sick  one's  eyes  —  yet  staring  through  the  gloom, 

While  her  hands  fumbled  at  her  heart,  and  Death 

Made  her  limbs  quake,  and  combated  her  breath  — 

More  dreadful  than  the  Queen's  look,  as  she  thence 
Made  through  the  court,  and  reached  her  own  array 

She  knew  not  how,  and  clamored,  "Bear  me  hence  ! " 
And,  even  as  her  chariot  moved  away, 

High  o'er  the  Abbey  heard  the  minster  toll 

Its  doleful  bell,  as  for  a  passing  soul. 

Though  midst  her  guardsmen,  as  they  speeded  back, 
The  wont  of  royalty  maintained  her  still, 

Where  grief  had  been  were  ruin  now  and  rack ! 
The  firm  earth  reeled  about,  nor  could  her  will 

Make  it  seem  stable,  while  her  soul  went  through 

Her  wedded  years  in  desperate  review. 


230  THE   BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 

The  air  seemed  full  of  lies  ;  the  realm,  unsound  ; 

Her  courtiers,  knaves ;  her  maidens,  good  and  fair, 
Most  shameless  bawds  ;  her  children  clung  around 

Like  asps,  to  sting  her ;  from  the  kingdom's  heir, 
Shuddering,  she  turned  her  face,  —  his  features  took 
A  shining  horror  from  his  father's  look. 

Along  her  city  streets  the  thrifty  crowd, 

As  the  Queen  passed,  their  loving  reverence  made. 

"  'T  is  false  !  they  love  me  not !  "  she  cried  aloud  ; 
So  flung  her  from  her  chariot,  and  forbade 

All  words,  but  waved  her  ladies  back,  and  gained 

Her  inmost  room,  and  by  herself  remained. 

"  We  have  been  alone  these  years,  and  knew  it  not," 
She  said  ;  "  now  let  us  on  the  knowledge  thrive !  " 

So  closed  the  doors,  and  all  things  else  forgot 
Than  her  own  misery.     "  I  cannot  live 

And  bear  this  death,"  she  said,  "nor  die,  the  more 

To  meet  him,  —  and  that  woman  gone  before  !  " 

Thus  with  herself  she  writhed,  while  midnight  gloomed, 

As  lone  as  any  outcast  of  us  all ; 
And  once,  without  a  purpose,  as  the  doomed 

Stare  round  and  count  the  shadows  on  the  wall, 
Unclasped  a  poet's  book  which  near  her  lay, 
And  turned  its  pages  in  that  witless  way, 

And  read  the  song,  some  wise,  sad  man  had  made, 
With  bitter  frost  about  his  doubting  heart. 

"  What  is  this  life,"  it  plained,  "  what  masquerade 
Of  which  ye  all  are  witnesses  and  part  ? 

'  T  is  but  a  foolish,  smiling  face  to  wear 

Above  your  mortal  sorrow,  chill  despair  ; 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE.  23! 

"  To  mock  your  comrades  and  yourselves  with  mirth 
That  feeds  the  care  ye  cannot  drive  away  ; 

To  vaunt  of  health,  yet  hide  beneath  the  girth 
Impuissance,  fell  sickness,  slow  decay  ; 

To  cloak  defeat,  and  with  the  rich,  the  great, 

Applaud  their  fairer  fortunes  as  their  mate  ; 

^ 
"  To  brave  the  sudden  woe,  the  secret  loss, 

Though  but  to-morrow  brings  the  open  shame  ; 
To  pay  the  tribute  of  your  caste,  and  toss 

Your  last  to  him  that  's  richer  save  in  name  ; 
To  judge  your  peers,  and  give  the  doleful  meed 
To  crime  that 's  white  beside  your  hidden  deed  ; 

"  To  whisper  love,  where  of  true  love  is  none,  — 
Desire,  where  lust  is  dead  ;  to  live  unchaste, 

And  wear  the  priestly  cincture  ;  —  last,  to  own, 

When  the  morn's  dream  is  gone  and  noontide  waste, 

Some  fate  still  kept  ye  from  your  purpose  sweet, 

Down  strange,  circuitous  paths  it  drew  your  feet !  " 

Thus  far  she  read,  and,  "  Let  me  read  no  more," 
She  clamored,  "  since  the  scales  have  left  mine  eyes 

And  freed  the  dreadful  gift  I  lacked  before  ! 
We  are  but  puppets,  in  whatever  guise 

They  clothe  us,  to  whatever  tune  we  move  ; 

Albeit  we  prate  of  duty,  dream  of  love. 

"  Let  me,  too,  play  the  common  part,  and  wean 
My  life  from  hope,  and  look  beneath  the  mask 

To  read  the  masker  !     I,  who  was  a  Queen, 
And  like  a  hireling  thought  to  'scape  my  task ! 

For  some  few  seasons  left  this  heart  is  schooled  : 

Yet,  —  had  it  been  a  little  longer  fooled,  — 


232 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 


"  O  God  !  "     And  from  her  seat  she  bowed  her  down. 

The  gentle  sovereign  of  that  spacious  land 
Lay  prone  beneath  the  bauble  of  her  crown, 

Nor  heard  all  night  her  whispering  ladies  stand 
Outside  the  portal.     Greatly,  in  the  morn, 
They  marvelled  at  her  visage  wan  and  worn. 


T)  UT  when  the  sun  was  high,  the  populace 

*~*  By  every  gateway  filled  the  roads,  and  sought 

The  martial  plain,  within  whose  central  space 

That  wonder  of  the  Prince's  tomb  was  wrought. 
Thereto  from  out  the  nearer  land  there  passed 
The  mingled  folk,  an  eager  throng  and  vast  ; 

Knights,  commons,  men  and  women,  young  and  old, 
The  present  and  the  promise  of  the  realm. 

Anon  the  coming  of  the  Queen  was  told, 

And  mounted  guards,  with  sable  plumes  at  helm, 

Made  through  the  middle,  like  a  reaper's  swath, 

A  straight,  wide  roadway  for  the  sovereign's  path. 

Then  rose  the  murmurous  sound  of  her  advance, 
And,  with  the  crown-prince,  and  her  other  brood 

Led  close  behind,  she  came.     Her  countenance 
Moved  not  to  right  nor  left,  until  she  stood 

Before  the  tomb  ;  yet  those,  who  took  the  breath 

That  clothed  her  progress,  felt  a  waft  of  death. 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE.  233 

O  noble  martyr  !  queenliest  intent ! 

Strong  human  soul,  that  holds  to  pride  through  all ! 
Ah  me  !  with  what  fierce  heavings  in  them  pent 

The  brave  complete  their  work,  whate'er  befall  ! 
Upon  her  front  the  people  only  read 
Pale  grief  that  clung  forever  to  the  dead. 

How  should  they  know  she  trod  the  royal  stand, 
And  took  within  her  hold  the  silken  line, 

As,  while  the  headsman  waits,  one  lays  her  hand 
Upon  the  scarf  that  slays  her  by  a  sign  ? 

With  one  great  pang  she  drew  the  veil,  and  lo  ! 

The  work  was  dazzling  in  the  noonday  glow. 

There  shone  the  Prince's  image,  golden,  high, 

Installed  forever  in  the  people's  sight. 
''  Alas  !  "  they  cried,  "  too  good,  too  fair  to  die  ! " 

But  at  the  foot  the  Queen  had  bid  them  write 
Her  consort's  goodness,  and  his  glory-roll, 
Yet  knew  not  they  had  carved  upon  the  scroll 

That  last  assurance  of  his  stainless  heart,  — 

For  such  they  deemed  his  wordswho  heard  themfall, — 

"  Of  all  great  things  this  Prince  achieved  his  part, 
Yet  wedded  Love  to  him  was  worth  them  all." 

Thus  read  the  Queen  :  till  now,  her  injured  soul 

Of  its  forlornness  had  not  felt  the  whole. 

Now  all  her  heart  was  broken.     There  she  fell, 

And  to  the  skies  her  lofty  spirit  fled. 
The  wrong  of  those  mute  words  had  smitten  well. 

A  cry  went  up  :  "  The  Queen  !  the  Queen  is  dead  ! 
O  regal  heart  that  would  not  reign  alone ! 
O  fatal  sorrow  !     O  the  empty  throne  !  " 


234 


THE  BLAMELESS  PRINCE. 

Her  people  made  her  beauteous  relics  room 
Within  the  chamber  where  her  consort  slept. 

There  rest  they  side  by  side.     Around  the  tomb 
A  thousand  matrons  solemn  vigil  kept. 

Long  ages  told  the  story  of  her  reign, 

And  sang  the  nuptial  love  that  had  no  stain. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


I. 

SONGS    AND    STUDIES. 

SURF. 

O  PLENDORS  of  morning  the  billow-crests  brighten, 
*-J   Lighting  and  luring  them  on  to  the  land,  — 
Far-away  waves  where  the  wan  vessels  whiten, 

Blue  rollers  breaking  in  surf  where  we  stand. 
Curved  like  the  necks  of  a  legion  of  horses, 

Each  with  his  froth-gilded  mane  flowing  free, 
Hither  they  speed  in  perpetual  courses, 

Bearing  thy  riches,  O  beautiful  sea  ! 

Strong  with  the  striving  of  yesterday's  surges, 

Lashed  by  the  wanton  winds  leagues  from  the  shore, 
Each,  driven  fast  by  its  follower,  urges 

Fearlessly  those  that  are  fleeting  before  ; 
How  they  leap  over  the  ridges  we  walk  on, 

Flinging  us  gifts  from  the  depths  of  the  sea,  — 
Silvery  fish  for  the  foam-haunting  falcon, 

Palm-weed  and  pearls  for  my  darling  and  me  ! 


238  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Light  falls  her  foot  where  the  rift  follows  after, 

Finer  her  hair  than  your  feathery  spray, 
Sweeter  her  voice  than  your  infinite  laughter,  — 

Hist  !  ye  wild  couriers,  list  to  my  lay  ! 
Deep  in  the  chambers  of  grottos  auroral 

Morn  laves  her  jewels  and  bends  her  red  knee  ; 
Thence  to  my  dear  one  your  amber  and  coral 

Bring  for  her  dowry,  O  beautiful  sea  ! 


TOUJOURS  AMOUR. 

PRITHEE  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin, 
At  what  age  does  Love  begin  ? 
Your  blue  eyes  have  scarcely  seen 
Summers  three,  my  fairy  queen, 
But  a  miracle  of  sweets, 
Soft  approaches,  sly  retreats, 
Show  the  little  archer  there, 
Hidden  in  your  pretty  hair  ; 
When  didst  learn  a  heart  to  win  ? 
Prithee  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin  ! 

"  Oh  !  "  the  rosy  lips  reply, 
«'  I  can't  tell  you  if  I  try. 
'T  is  so  long  I  can't  remember  : 
Ask  some  younger  lass  than  I  ! " 

Tell,  O  tell  me,  Grizzled- Face, 
Do  your  heart  and  head  keep  pace  ? 
When  does  hoary  Love  expire, 
When  do  frosts  put  out  the  fire  ? 
Can  its  embers  burn  below 
All  that  chill  December  snow  ? 


LAURA,   MY  DARLING.  239 

Care  you  still  soft  hands  to  press, 
Bonny  heads  to  smooth  and  bless  ? 
When  does  Love  give  up  the  chase  ? 
Tell,  O  tell  me,  Grizzled-Face  ! 

"  Ah  !  "  the  wise  old  lips  reply, 
"  Youth  may  pass  and  strength  may  die  ; 
But  of  Love  I  can't  foretoken  : 
Ask  some  older  sage  than  I ! " 


LAURA,  MY  DARLING. 

LAURA,  my  darling,  the  roses  have  blushed 
At  the  kiss  of  the  dew,  and  our  chamber  is  hushed 
Our  murmuring  babe  to  your  bosom  has  clung, 
And  hears  in  his  slumber  the  song  that  you  sung  ; 
I  watch  you  asleep  with  your  arms  round  him  thrown, 
Your  links  of  dark  tresses  wound  in  with  his  own, 
And  the  wife  is  as  dear  as  the  gentle  young  bride 
Of  the  hour  when  you  first,  darling,  came  to  my  side. 

Laura,  my  darling,  our  sail  down  the  stream 
Of  Youth's  summers  and  winters  has  been  like  a  dream 
Years  have  but  rounded  your  womanly  grace, 
And  added  their  spell  to  the  light  of  your  face  ; 
Your  soul  is  the  same  as  though  part  were  not  given 
To  the  two,  like  yourself,  sent  to  bless  me  from  heaven 
Dear  lives,  springing  forth  from  the  life  of  my  life, 
To  make  you  more  near,  darling,  mother  and  wife ! 

Laura,  my  darling,  there  's  hazel-eyed  Fred, 
Asleep  in  his  own  tiny  cot  by  the  bed, 


240 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


And  little  King  Arthur,  whose  curls  have  the  art 
Of  winding  their  tendrils  so  close  round  my  heart ; 
Yet  fairer  than  either,  and  dearer  than  both, 
Is  the  true  one  who  gave  me  in  girlhood  her  troth : 
For  we,  when  we  mated  for  evil  and  good,  — 
What  were  we,  darling,  but  babes  in  the  wood  ? 

Laura,  my  darling,  the  years  which  have  flown 
Brought  few  of  the  prizes  I  pledged  to  my  own. 
I  said  that  no  sorrow  should  roughen  her  way,  — 
Her  life  should  be  cloudless,  a  long  summer's  day. 
Shadow  and  sunshine,  thistles  and  flowers, 
Which  of  the  two,  darling,  most  have  been  ours  ? 
Yet  to-night,  by  the  smile  on  your  lips,  I  can  see 
You  are  dreaming  of  me,  darling,  dreaming  of  me. 

Laura,  my  darling,  the  stars,  that  we  knew 

In  our  youth,  are  still  shining  as  tender  and  true  ; 

The  midnight  is  sounding  its  slumberous  bell, 

And  I  come  to  the  one  who  has  loved  me  so  well. 

Wake,  darling,  wake,  for  my  vigil  is  done  : 

What  shall  dissever  our  lives  which  are  one  ? 

Say,  while  the  rose  listens  under  her  breath, 

"  Naught  until  death,  darling,  naught  until  death  ! " 


THE  TRYST. 

0  LEEPING,  I  dreamed  that  thou  wast  mine, 
^-J    In  some  ambrosial  lovers'  shrine. 

My  lips  against  thy  lips  were  pressed, 
And  all  our  passion  was  confessed ; 
So  near  and  dear  my  darling  seemed, 

1  knew  not  that  I  only  dreamed. 


VIOLET  EYES. 

Waking,  this  mid  and  moonlit  night, 
I  clasp  thee  close  by  lover's  right. 
Thou  fearest  not  my  warm  embrace, 
And  yet,  so  like  the  dream  thy  face 
And  kisses,  I  but  half  partake 
The  joy,  and  know  not  if  I  wake. 


VIOLET  EYES. 

ONE  can  never  quite  forget 
Eyes  like  yours,  May  Margaret, 
Eyes  of  dewy  violet ! 
Nothing  like  them,  Margaret, 
Save  the  blossoms  newly  born 
Of  the  May  and  of  the  Morn. 

Oft  my  memory  wanders  back 

To  those  burning  eyes  and  black, 

Whose  heat-lightnings  once  could  move 

Me  to  passion,  not  to  love ; 

Longer  in  my  heart  of  hearts 

Linger  those  disguised  arts, 

Which,  betimes,  a  hazel  pair 

Used  upon  me  unaware  ; 

And  the  wise  and  tender  gray  — 

Eyes  wherewith  a  saint  might  pray  — 

Speak  of  pledges  that  endure 

And  of  faith  and  vigils  pure  ; 

But  for  him  who  fain  would  know 

All  the  fire  the  first  can  show, 

All  the  art,  or  friendship  fast, 

Of  the  second  and  the  last,  — 

ii  P 


24I 


242  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

And  would  gain  a  subtler  worth, 

Part  of  Heaven,  part  of  Earth,  — 

He  these  mingled  rays  can  find 

In  but  one  immortal  kind  : 

In  those  eyes  of  violet, 

In  your  eyes,  May  Margaret ! 


THE  DOORSTEP. 

THE  conference-meeting  through  at  last, 
We  boys  around  the  vestry  waited 
To  see  the  girls  come  tripping  past 
Like  snow-birds  willing  to  be  mated. 

Not  braver  he  that  leaps  the  wall 

By  level  musket-flashes  litten, 
Than  .1,  that  stepped  before  them  all 

Who  longed  to  see  me  get  the  mitten. 

But  no,  she  blushed  and  took  my  arm  ! 

We  let  the  old  folks  have  the  highway, 
And  started  toward  the  Maple  Farm 

Along  a  kind  of  lovers'  by-way. 

I  can't  remember  what  we  said, 
'T  was  nothing  worth  a  song  or  story ; 

Yet  that  rude  path  by  which  we  sped 
Seemed  all  transformed  and  in  a  glory. 

The  snow  was  crisp  beneath  our  feet, 

The  moon  was  full,  the  fields  were  gleaming  ; 

By  hood  and  tippet  sheltered  sweet, 
Her  face  with  youth  and  health  was  beaming. 


THE  DOORSTEP. 

The  little  hand  outside  her  muff,  — 

O  sculptor,  if  you  could  but  mould  it !  — 

So  lightly  touched  my  jacket-cuff, 
To  keep  it  warm  I  had  to  hold  it. 

To  have  her  with  me  there  alone,  — 

'T  was  love  and  fear  and  triumph  blended. 

At  last  we  reached  the  foot-worn  stone  * 
Where  that  delicious  journey  ended. 

The  old  folks,  too,  were  almost  home ; 

Her  dimpled  hand  the  latches  fingered, 
We  heard  the  voices  nearer  come, 

Yet  on  the  doorstep  still  we  lingered. 

She  shook  her  ringlets  from  her  hood 
And  with  a  "  Thank  you,  Ned,"  dissembled, 

But  yet  I  knew  she  understood 

With  what  a  daring  wish  I  trembled. 

A  cloud  passed  kindly  overhead, 

The  moon  was  slyly  peeping  through  it, 

Yet  hid  its  face,  as  if  it  said, 

"  Come,  now  or  never  !  do  it !  do  it  I " 

My  lips  till  then  had  only  known 
The  kiss  of  mother  and  of  sister, 

But  somehow,  full  upon  her  own 

Sweet,  rosy,  darling  mouth,  —  I  kissed  her  ! 

Perhaps  't  was  boyish  love,  yet  still, 

0  listless  woman,  weary  lover  ! 

To  feel  once  more  that  fresh,  wild  thrill 

1  'd  give  —  but  who  can  live  youth  over  ? 


243 


244 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


FUIT  ILIUM. 

ONE  by  one  they  died, — 
Last  of  all  their  race  ; 
Nothing  left  but  pride, 

Lace,  and  buckled  hose. 
Their  quietus  made, 

On  their  dwelling-place 
Ruthless  hands  are  laid  : 

Down  the  old  house  goes  ! 

See  the  ancient  manse 
Meet  its  fate  at  last ! 
Time,  in  his  advance, 

Age  nor  honor  knows  ; 
Axe  and  broadaxe  fall, 

Lopping  off  the  Past : 
Hit  with  bar  and  maul, 

Down  the  old  house  goes  ! 

Sevenscore  years  it  stood  : 

Yes,  they  built  it  well, 
Though  they  built  of  wood, 
When  that  house  arose. 
For  its  cross-beams  square 

Oak  and  walnut  fell ; 
Little  worse  for  wear, 

Down  the  old  house  goes  ! 

Rending  board  and  plank, 
Men  with  crowbars  ply, 
Opening  fissures  dank, 

Striking  deadly  blows. 


FUIT  ILIUM. 

From  the  gabled  roof 

How  the  shingles  fly  ! 
Keep  you  here  aloof,  — 

Down  the  old  house  goes  ! 

Holding  still  its  place, 

There  the  chimney  stands, 
Stanch  from  top  to  base, 
Frowning  on  its  foes. 
Heave  apart  the  stones, 
Burst  its  iron  bands  ! 
How  it  shakes  and  groans  ! 
Down  the  old  house  goes  ! 

Round  the  mantel-piece 

Glisten  Scripture  tiles ; 
Henceforth  they  shall  cease 
Painting  Egypt's  woes, 
Painting  David's  fight, 

Fair  Bathsheba's  smiles, 
Blinded  Samson's  might,  — 
Down  the  old  house  goes  ! 

On  these  oaken  floors 

High-shoed  ladies  trod ; 
Through  those  panelled  doors 

Trailed  their  furbelows  : 
Long  their  day  has  ceased  ; 

Now,  beneath  the  sod, 
With  the  worms  they  feast,  — 
Down  the  old  house  goes  ! 

Many  a  bride  has  stood 
In  yon  spacious  room  ; 


245 


246  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Here  her  hand  was  wooed 
Underneath  the  rose  ; 

O'er  that  sill  the  dead 

Reached  the  family  tomb  : 

All,  that  were,  have  fled,  — 
Down  the  old  house  goes  ! 

Once,  in  yonder  hall, 

Washington,  they  say, 
Led  the  New- Year's  ball, 

Stateliest  of  beaux. 
,O  that  minuet, 

Maids  and  matrons  gay  ! 
Are  there  such  sights  yet  ? 

Down  the  old  house  goes  ! 

British  troopers  came 

Ere  another  year, 
With  their  coats  aflame, 

Mincing  on  their  toes  ; 
Daughters  of  the  house 

Gave  them  haughty  cheer, 
Laughed  to  scorn  their  vows,  — 
Down  the  old  house  goes  ! 

Doorway  high  the  box 

In  the  grass-plot  spreads ; 
It  has  borne  its  locks 

Through  a  thousand  snows  ; 
In  an  evil  day, 

From  those  garden-beds 
Now  't  is  hackfed  away,  — 

Down  the  old  house  goes  ! 


COUNTRY  SLEIGHING.  24? 

Lo !  the  sycamores, 

Scathed  and  scrawny  mates, 
At  the  mansion  doors 

Shiver,  full  of  woes  ; 
With  its  life  they  grew, 

Guarded  well  its  gates  ; 
Now  their  task  is  through,  — 
Down  the  old  house  goes  ! 

On  this  honored  site 

Modern  trade  will  build, — 
What  unseemly  fright 

Heaven  only  knows  ! 
Something  peaked  and  high, 

Smacking  of  the  guild  : 
Let  us  heave  a  sigh,  — 

Down  the  old  house  goes  ! 


COUNTRY   SLEIGHING. 

A  NEW  SONG  TO  AN   OLD  TUNE. 

T  N  January,  when  down  the  dairy 
-•-    The  cream  and  clabber  freeze, 
When  snow-drifts  cover  the  fences  over, 

We  farmers  take  our  ease. 
At  night  we  rig  the  team, 

And  bring  the  cutter  out ; 
Then  fill  it,  fill  it,  fill  it,  fill  it, 

And  heap  the  furs  about. 


248  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Here  friends  and  cousins  dash  up  by  dozens, 

And  sleighs  at  least  a  score  ; 
There  John  and  Molly,  behind,  are  jolly, — 

Nell  rides  with  me,  before. 
All  down  the  village  street 

We  range  us  in  a  row : 
Now  jingle,  jingle,  jingle,  jingle, 

And  over  the  crispy  snow  ! 

The  windows  glisten,  the  old  folks  listen 

To  hear  the  sleigh-bells  pass  ; 
The  fields  grow  whiter,  the  stars  are  brighter, 

The  road  is  smooth  as  glass. 
Our  muffled  faces  burn, 

The  clear  north-wind  blows  cold, 
The  girls  all  nestle,  nestle,  nestle, 

Each  in  her  lover's  hold. 

Through  bridge  and  gateway  we  're  shooting  straightway, 

Their  tollman  was  too  slow ! 
He  '11  listen  after  our  song  and  laughter 

As  over  the  hill  we  go. 
The  girls  cry,  "  Fie  !  for  shame  ! " 

Their  cheeks  and  lips  are  red, 
And  so,  with  kisses,  kisses,  kisses, 

They  take  the  toll  instead. 

Still  follow,  follow  !  across  the  hollow 

The  tavern  fronts  the  road. 
Whoa,  now  !  all  steady  !  the  host  is  ready,  — 

He  knows  the  country  mode  ! 
The  irons  are  in  the  fire, 

The  hissing  flip  is  got ; 
So  pour  and  sip  it,  sip  it,  sip  it, 

And  sip  it  while  't  is  hot 


COUNTRY  SLEIGHING.  249 

Push  back  the  tables,  and  from  the  stables 

Bring  Tom,  the  fiddler,  in  ; 
All  take  your  places,  and  make  your  graces, 

And  let  the  dance  begin. 
The  girls  are  beating  time 

To  hear  the  music  sound  ; 
Now  foot  it,  foot  it,  foot  it,  foot  it, 

And  swing  your  partners  round. 

Last  couple  toward  the  left !  all  forward  ! 

Cotillons  through,  let 's  wheel : 
First  tune  the  fiddle,  then  down  the  middle 

In  old  Virginia  Reel. 
Play  Money  Musk  to  close, 

Then  take  the  "  long  chasse"," 
While  in  to  supper,  supper,  supper, 

The  landlord  leads  the  way. 

The  bells  are  ringing,  the  ostlers  bringing 

The  cutters  up  anew  ; 
The  beasts  are  neighing  ;  too  long  we  're  staying, 

The  night  is  half-way  through. 
Wrap  close  the  buffalo-robes, 

We  're  all  aboard  once  more  ; 
Now  jingle,  jingle,  jingle,  jingle, 

Away  from  the  tavern-door 

So  follow,  follow,  by  hill  and  hollow, 

And  swiftly  homeward  glide. 
What  midnight  splendor  !  how  warm  and  tender 

The  maiden  by  your  side  ! 
The  sleighs  drop  far  apart, 

Her  words  are  soft  and  low  ; 
Now,  if  you  love  her,  love  her,  love  her, 

'T  is  safe  to  tell  her  so. 


250 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


PAN    IN   WALL   STREET. 

A.   D.    1867. 

JUST  where  the  Treasury's  marble  front 
Looks  over  Wall  Street's  mingled  nations 
Where  Jews  and  Gentiles  most  are  wont 

To  throng  for  trade  and  last  quotations  ; 
Where,  hour  by  hour,  the  rates  of  gold 

Outrival,  in  the  ears  of  people, 
The  quarter-chimes,  serenely  tolled 
From  Trinity's  undaunted  steeple,  — 

Even  there  I  heard  a  strange,  wild  strain 

Sound  high  above  the  modern  clamor, 
Above  the  cries  of  greed  and  gain, 

The  curbstone  war,  the  auction's  hammer  ; 
And  swift,  on  Music's  misty  ways, 

It  led,  from  all  this  strife  for  millions, 
To  ancient,  sweet-do-nothing  days 

Among  the  kirtle-robed  Sicilians. 

And  as  it  stilled  the  multitude, 

And  yet  more  joyous  rose,  and  shriller, 
I  saw  the  minstrel,  where  he  stood 

At  ease  against  a  Doric  pillar : 
One  hand  a  droning  organ  played, 

The  other  held  a  Pan's-pipe  (fashioned 
Like  those  of  old)  to  lips  that  made 

The  reeds  give  out  that  strain  impassioned. 


PAN  IN  WALL  STREET.  251 

'T  was  Pan  himself  had  wandered  here 

A-strolling  through  this  sordid  city, 
And  piping  to  the  civic  ear 

The  prelude  of  some  pastoral  ditty ! 
The  demigod  had  crossed  the  seas,  — 

From  haunts  of  shepherd,  nymph,  and  satyr, 
And  Syracusan  times,  —  to  these 

Far  shores  and  twenty  centuries  later. 

A  ragged  cap  was  on  his  head ; 

But  —  hidden  thus  —  there  was  no  doubting 
That,  all  with  crispy  locks  o'erspread, 

His  gnarle*d  horns  were  somewhere  sprouting ; 
His  club-feet,  cased  in  rusty  shoes, 

Were  crossed,  as  on  some  frieze  you  see  them, 
And  trousers,  patched  of  divers  hues, 

Concealed  his  crooked  shanks  beneath  them. 

He  filled  the  quivering  reeds  with  sound, 

And  o'er  his  mouth  their  changes  shifted, 
And  with  his  goat's-eyes  looked  around 

Where'er  the  passing  current  drifted  ; 
And  soon,  as  on  Trinacrian  hills 

The  nymphs  and  herdsmen  ran  to  hear  him, 
Even  now  the  tradesmen  from  their  tills, 

With  clerks  and  porters,  crowded  near  him. 

The  bulls  and  bears  together  drew 

From  Jauncey  Court  and  New  Street  Alley, 
As  erst,  if  pastorals  be  true, 

Came  beasts  from  every  wooded  valley ; 
The  random  passers  stayed  to  list,  — 

A  boxer  ^Egon,  rough  and  merry, 
A  Broadway  Daphnis,  on  his  tryst 

With  Nais  at  the  Brooklyn  Ferry. 


252 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


A  one-eyed  Cyclops  halted  long 

In  tattered  cloak  of  army  pattern, 
,  And  Galatea  joined  the  throng,  — 

A  blowsy,  apple- vending  slattern  ; 
While  old  Silenus  staggered  out 

From  some  new-fangled  lunch-house  handy, 
And  bade  the  piper,  with  a  shout, 

To  strike  up  Yankee  Doodle  Dandy  ! 

A  newsboy  and  a  peanut-girl 

Like  little  Fauns  began  to  caper : 
His  hair  was  all  in  tangled  curl, 

Her  tawny  legs  were  bare  and  taper ; 
And  still  the  gathering  larger  grew, 

And  gave  its  pence  and  crowded  nigher, 
While  aye  the  shepherd-minstrel  blew 

His  pipe,  and  struck  the  gamut  higher. 

O  heart  of  Nature,  beating  still 

With  throbs  her  vernal  passion  taught  her,  - 
Even  here,  as  on  the  vine-clad  hill, 

Or  by  the  Arethusan  water  ! 
New  forms  may  fold  the  speech,  new  lands 

Arise  within  these  ocean-portals, 
But  Music  waves  eternal  wands,  — 

Enchantress  of  the  souls  of  mortals  ! 

So  thought  I,  —  but  among  us  trod 

A  man  in  blue,  with  legal  baton, 
And  scoffed  the  vagrant  demigod, 

And  pushed  him  from  the  step  I  sat  on. 
Doubting  I  mused  upon  the  cry, 

"  Great  Pan  is  dead  !  "  —  and  all  the  people 
Went  on  their  ways  :  —  and  clear  and  high 

The  quarter  sounded  from  the  steeple. 


ANONYM  A. 


253 


ANONYMA. 

#  HER   CONFESSION. 

T  F  I  had  been  a  rich  man's  girl, 
-»-   With  my  tawny  hair,  and  this  wanton  art 
Of  lifting  my  eyes  in  the  evening  whirl 

And  looking  into  another's  heart; 
Had  love  been  mine  at  birth,  and  friends 

Caressing  and  guarding  me  night  and  day, 
With  doctors  to  watch  my  finger-ends, 
And  a  parson  to  teach  me  how  to  pray ; 

If  I  had  been  reared  as  others  have,  — 

With  but  a  tithe  of  these  looks,  which  came 
From  my  reckless  mother,  now  in  her  grave, 

And  the  father  who  grudged  me  even  his  name. 
Why,  I  should  have  station  and  tender  care, 

Should  ruin  men  in  the  high-bred  way, 
Passionless,  smiling  at  their  despair, 

And  marrying  where  my  vantage  lay. 

As  it  is,  I  must  have  love  and  dress, 

Jewelled  trinkets,  and  costly  food, 
For  I  was  born  for  plenteousness, 

Music  and  flowers,  and  all  things  good. 
To  that  same  father  I  owe  some  thanks, 

Seeing,  at  least,  that  blood  will  tell, 
And  keep  me  ever  above  the  ranks 

Of  those  who  wallow  where  they  fell. 


254  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

True,  there  are  weary,  weary  days 

In  the  great  hotel  where  I  make  my  lair, 
Where  I  meet  the  men  with  their  brutal  praise, 

Or  answer  the  women,  stare  for  stare. 
'T  is  an  even  fight,  and  I  '11  carry  it  through,  — 

Pit  them  against  me,  great  and  small : 
I  grant  no  quarter,  nor  would  I  sue 

For  grace  to  the  softest  of  them  all. 

I  cannot  remember  half  the  men 

Whose  sin  has  tangled  them  in  my  toils,  — 
All  are  alike  before  me  then, 

Part  of  my  easily  conquered  spoils  : 
Tall  or  short,  and  dark  or  fair, 

Rich  or  famous,  haughty  or  fond, 
There  are  few,  I  find,  who  will  not  forswear 

The  lover's  oath  and  the  wedding  bond. 

Fools  !  what  is  it  that  drives  them  on 

With  their  perjured  lips  on  poison  fed  ; 
Vain  of  themselves,  and  cruel  as  stone, 

How  should  they  be  so  cheaply  led  ? 
Surely  they  know  me  as  I  am,  — 

Only  a  cuckoo,  at  the  best, 
Watching,  careless  of  hate  and  shame, 

To  crouch  myself  in  another's  nest. 

But  the  women,  —  how  they  nutter  and  flout, 

The  stupid,  terribly  virtuous  wives, 
If  I  but  chance  to  move  about 

Or  enter  within  their  bustling  hives  ! 
Buz  !  buz  !  in  the  scandalous  gatherings, 

When  a  strange  queen  lights  amid  their  throng, 
And  their  tongues  have  a  thousand  angry  stings 

To  send  her  travelling,  right  or  wrong. 


SPOKEN  AT  SEA.  255 

Well,  the  earth  is  wide  and  open  to  all, 

And  money  and  men  are  everywhere, 
And,  as  I  roam,  't  will  ill  befall 

If  I  do  not  gain  my  lawful  share  : 
One  drops  off,  but  another  will  come 

With  as  light  a  head  and  heavy  a  purse  ; 
So  long  as  I  have  the  world  for  a  home, 

I'  11  take  my  fortune,  better  or  worse  ! 


SPOKEN   AT   SEA. 

THE  LOG-BOOK  OF  THE  STEAMSHIP  VIRGINIA. 

^WELVE  hundred  miles  and  more 
•*•     From  the  stormy  English  shore, 

All  aright,  the  seventh  night, 
On  her  course  our  vessel  bore. 
Her  lantern  shone  ahead, 
And  the  green  lamp  and  the  red 
To  starboard  and  to  larboard 
Shot  their  light. 

Close  on  the  midnight  call 
What  a  mist  began  to  fall, 

And  to  hide  the  ocean  wide, 
And  to  wrap  us  in  a  pall ! 
Beneath  its  folds  we  past : 
Hidden  were  shroud  and  mast, 

And  faces,  in  near  places 
Side  by  side. 


256 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Sudden  there  also  fell 
A  summons  like  a  knell : 

Every  ear  the  words  could  hear,  — 
Whence  spoken,  who  could  tell  ? 
"  What  ship  is  this  ?  where  bound  ?  " 
Gods,  what  a  dismal  sound  ! 

A  stranger,  and  in  danger, 
Sailing  near. 

w  The  Virginia,  on  her  route 
From  the  Mersey,  seven  days  out ; 

Fore  and  aft,  our  trusty  craft 
Carries  a  thousand  souls,  about." 
"  All  these  souls  may  travel  still, 
Westward  bound,  if  so  they  will ; 

Bodies  rather,  I  would  gather  ! " 
Loud  he  laughed. 

"  Who  is  't  that  hails  so  rude, 
And  for  what  this  idle  mood? 

Words  like  these,  on  midnight  seas, 
Bode  no  friend  nor  fortune  good  !  " 
"  Care  not  to  know  my  name, 
But  whence  I  lastly  came, 

At  leisure,  for  my  pleasure, 
Ask  the  breeze. 

"  To  the  people  of  your  port 
Bear  a  message  of  this  sort : 

Say,  I  haste  unto  the  West, 
A  sharer  of  their  sport. 
Let  them  sweep  the  houses  clean  : 
Their  fathers  did,  I  ween, 

When  hearing  of  my  nearing 
As  a  guest  ! 


THE  DUKE'S  EXEQUY. 

"As  by  Halifax  ye  sail 

And  the  steamship  England  hail, 

Of  me,  then,  bespeak  her  men  ; 
She  took  my  latest  mail,  — 
'T  was  somewhere  near  this  spot : 
Doubtless  they  Ve  not  forgot. 

Remind  them  (if  you  find  them  !) 
Once  again. 

"  Yet  that  you  all  may  know 
Who  is  't  that  hailed  you  so, 

(Slow  he  saith,  and  under  breath,) 
I  leave  my  sign  below  !  " 
Then  from  our  crowded  hold 
A  dreadful  cry  uprolled, 

Unbroken,  and  the  token,  — 
It  was  Death. 


THE   DUKE'S   EXEQUY. 

ARRAS,  A.   D.    1404. 

/"CLOTHED  in  sable,  crowned  with  gold, 
^  All  his  wars  and  councils  ended, 
Philip  lay,  surnamed  The  Bold  : 
Passing-bell  his  quittance  tolled, 
And  the  chant  of  priests  ascended. 

Mailed  knights  and  archers  stand, 
Thronging  in  the  church  of  Arras  ; 
Nevermore  at  his  command 
Shall  they  scour  the  Netherland, 
Nevermore  the  outlaws  harass  ; 

Q 


258  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Naught  is  left  of  his  array 

Save  a  barren  territory  ; 

Forty  years  of  generous  sway 
Sped  his  princely  hoards  away, 

Bartered  all  his  gold  for  glory. 

Forth  steps  Flemish  Margaret  then, 
Striding  toward  the  silent  ashes  ; 
And  the  eyes  of  arme'd  men 
Fill  with  startled  wonder,  when 
On  the  bier  her  girdle  clashes  ! 

Swift  she  drew  it  from  her  waist, 
And  the  purse  and  keys  it  carried 

On  the  ducal  coffin  placed  ; 

Then  with  proud  demeanor  faced 
Sword  and  shield  of  him  she  married. 

"  No  encumbrance  of  the  dead 
Must  the  living  clog  forever  ; 

From  thy  debts  and  dues,"  she  said, 
"  From  the  liens  of  thy  bed, 
We  this  day  our  line  dissever. 

"  From  thy  hand  we  gain  release, 
Know  all  present  by  this  token  ! 
Let  the  dead  repose  in  peace, 
Let  the  claims  upon  us  cease 
When  the  ties  that  bound  are  broken. 

"  Philip,  we  have  loved  thee  long, 
But,  in  years  of  future  splendor, 
Burgundy  shall  count  among 
Bravest  deeds  of  tale  and  song 
This,  our  widowhood's  surrender." 


259 


THE  HILLSIDE  DOOR. 

Back  the  stately  Duchess  turned, 
While  the  priests  and  friars  chanted, 
And  the  swinging  incense  burned  : 
Thus  by  feudal  rite  was  earned 
Greatness  for  a  race  undaunted. 


THE   HILLSIDE   DOOR. 

SOMETIMES  within  my  hand 
A  Spirit  puts  the  silver  key 

Of  Fairyland : 

From  the  dark,  barren  heath  he  beckons  me, 
Till  by  that  hidden  hillside  door, 

Where  bards  have  passed  before, 
I  seem  to  stand. 

The  portal  opens  wide  : 
In,  through  the  wondrous,  lighted  halls, 

Voiceless  I  glide 
Where  tinkling  music  magically  falls, 

And  fair  in  fountained  gardens  move 
The  heroes,  blest  with  love 
And  glorified. 

Then  by  the  meadows  green, 
Down  winding  walks  of  elf  and  fay, 

I  pass  unseen  : 

There  rest  the  valiant  chieftains  wreathed  with  bay 
Here  maidens  to  their  lovers  cling, 
And  happy  minstrels  sing, 
Praising  their  queen. 


26o  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

For  where  yon  pillars  are, 
And  birds  with  tuneful  voices  call, 

There  shines  a  star,  — 

The  crown  she  wears,  the  Fairy  Queen  of  all ! 
Led  to  that  inmost,  wooded  haunt 
By  maidens  ministrant, 
I  halt  afar. 

0  joy  !  she  sees  me  stand 
Doubting,  and  calls  me  near  her  throne, 

And  waves  her  wand, 
As  in  my  dreams,  and  smiles  on  me  alone. 
O  royal  beauty,  proud  and  sweet ! 

1  bow  me  at  her  feet 

To  kiss  that  hand  : 

Ah  woe  !  ah,  fate  malign  ! 
By  what  a  rude,  revengeful  gust, 

From  that  fair  shrine 

Which  holds  my  sovran  mistress  I  am  thrust ! 
Then  comes  a  mocking  voice's  taunt, 
Crying,  Thou  fool,  avaunt ! 
She  is  not  thine .' 

And  I  am  backward  borne 
By  unseen  awful  hands,  and  cast, 

In  utter  scorn, 

Forth  from  that  brightness  to  the  midnight  blast 
Not  mine  the  minstrel-lover's  wreath, 
But  the  dark,  barren  heath, 
And  heart  forlorn. 


AT  TWILIGHT.  26l 


AT   TWILIGHT. 

HTHE  sunset  darkens  in  the  west, 

-•-     The  sea-gulls  haunt  the  bay, 

And  far  and  high  the  swallows  fly 

To  watch  the  dying  day. 
Now  where  is  she  that  once  with  me 

The  rippling  waves  would  list  ? 
And  O  for  the  song  I  loved  so  long, 

And  the  darling  lips  I  kist ! 

Yon  twinkling  sail  may  whiter  gleam 

Than  falcon's  snowy  wing, 
Her  lances  far  the  evening-star 

Beyond  the  waves  may  fling ; 
Float  on,  ah  float,  enchanted  boat, 

Bear  true  hearts  o'er  the  main, 
But  I  shall  guide  thy  helm  no  more, 

Nor  whisper  love  again  ! 


II. 

POEMS    OF    NATURE. 

WOODS   AND   WATERS. 

"  O  ye  valleys !  O  ye  mountains  ! 
O  ye  groves  and  crystal  fountains  I 
How  I  love  at  liberty, 
By  turns,  to  come  and  visit  ye  1 " 

us  burst  the  cerements  and  the  shroud, 
^ —  And  with  the  livelong  year  renew  our  breath, 
Far  from  the  darkness  of  the  city's  cloud 

Which  hangs  above  us  like  the  pall  of  Death. 
Haste,  let  us  leave  the  shadow  of  his  wings  ! 
Off  from  our  cares,  a  stolen,  happy  time  ! 
Come  where  the  skies  are  blue,  the  uplands  green 

For  hark  !  the  robin  sings 
Even  here,  blithe  herald,  his  auroral  rhyme, 
Foretelling  joy,  and  June  his  sovereign  queen. 

See,  in  our  pave"d  courts  her  missal  scroll 
Is  dropped  astealth,  and  every  verdant  line, 

Emblazoned  round  with  Summer's  aureole, 
Pictures  to  eager  eyes,  like  thine  and  mine, 


264  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Her  trees  new-leaved  and  hillsides  far  away. 
Ransom  has  come  :  out  from  this  vaulted  town, 
Poor  prisoners  of  a  giant  old  and  blind, 

Into  the  breezy  day, 

Fleeing  the  sights  and  sounds  that  wear  us  down, 
And  in  the  fields  our  ancient  solace  find  ! 

Again  I  hunger  for  the  living  wood, 

The  laurelled  crags,  the  hemlocks  hanging  wide, 
The  rushing  stream  that  will  not  be  withstood, 

Bound  forward  to  wed  him  with  the  river's  tide  : 
O  what  wild  leaps  through  many  a  fettered  pass, 
Through  knotted  ambuscade  of  root  and  rock, 
How  white  the  plunge,  how  dark  the  cloven  pool 

Then  to  rich  meadow-grass, 
And  pastures  fed  by  tinkling  herd  and  flock, 
Till  the  wide  stream  receives  its  waters  cool. 

Again  I  long  for  lakes  that  lie  between 

High  mountains,  fringed  about  with  virgin  firs, 
Where  hand  of  man  has  never  rudely  been, 

Nor  plashing  wheel  the  limpid  water  stirs  ; 
There  let  us  twain  begin  the  world  again 

Like  those  of  old  ;  while  tree,  and  trout,  and  deer 
Unto  their  kindred  beings  draw  our  own, 

Till  more  than  haunts  of  men, 
Than  place  and  pelf,  more  welcome  these  appear, 
And  better  worth  sheer  life  than  we  had  known. 

Thither,  ay,  thither  flee,  O  dearest  friend, 

From  walls  wherein  we  grow  so  wan  and  old ! 

The  liberal  Earth  will  still  her  lovers  lend 
Water  of  life  and  storied  sands  of  gold. 

Though  of  her  perfect  form  thou  hast  secured 


TO  BAYARD    TAYLOR.  26$ 

Thy  will,  some  charm  shall  aye  thine  hold  defy, 
And  day  by  day  thy  passion  yet  shall  grow, 
Even  as  a  bridegroom,  lured 

By  the  unravished  secret  of  her  eye, 

Reads  the  bride's  soul,  yet  never  all  can  know. 

And  when  from  her  embrace  again  thou  'rt  torn, 

(Though  well  for  her  the  world  were  thrown  away  !) 
At  thine  old  tasks  thou  'It  not  be  quite  forlorn, 

Remembering  where  is  peace  ;  and  thou  shalt  say, 
"  I  know  where  beauty  has  not  felt  the  curse,  — 
Where,  though  I  age,  all  round  me  is  so  young 
That  in  its  youth  my  soul's  youth  mirrored  seems  ; 

Yes,  in  their  rippling  verse, 
For  all  our  toil,  they  have  not  falsely  sung 
Who  said  there  still  was  rest  beyond  our  dreams. 


TO   BAYARD   TAYLOR. 

WITH   A  COPY   OF  THE   ILIAD. 

T)  AYARD,  awaken  not  this  music  strong, 

U  While  round  thy  home  the  indolent  sweet  breeze 

Floats  lightly  as  the  summer  breath  of  seas 

O'er  which  Ulysses  heard  the  Sirens'  song. 

Dreams  of  low-lying  isles  to  June  belong. 

And  Circe  holds  us  in  her  haunts  of  ease ; 

But  later,  when  these  high  ancestral  trees 

Are  sere,  and  such  melodious  languors  wrong 

The  reddening  strength  of  the  autumnal  year, 

Yield  to  heroic  words  thy  ear  and  eye  ;  — 


266  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Intent  on  these  broad  pages  thou  shall  hear 
The  trumpets'  blare,  the  Argive  battle-cry, 
And  see  Achilles  hurl  his  hurtling  spear, 
And  mark  the  Trojan  arrows  make  reply  ! 


THE   MOUNTAIN. 

*~pWO  thousand  feet  in  air  it  stands 
-*•     Betwixt  the  bright  and  shaded  lands, 
Above  the  regions  it  divides 
And  borders  with  its  furrowed  sides. 
The  seaward  valley  laughs  with  light 
Till  the  round  sun  o'erhangs  this  height ; 
But  then  the  shadow  of  the  crest 
No  more  the  plains  that  lengthen  west 
Enshrouds,  yet  slowly,  surely  creeps 
Eastward,  until  the  coolness  steeps 
A  darkling  league  of  tilth  and  wold, 
And  chills  the  flocks  that  seek  their  fold. 

Not  like  those  ancient  summits  lone, 
Mont  Blanc,  on  his  eternal  throne, — 
The  city-gemmed  Peruvian  peak, — 
The  sunset-portals  landsmen  seek, 
Whose  train,  to  reach  the  Golden  Land, 
Crawls  slow  and  pathless  through  the  sand, 
Or  that,  whose  ice-lit  beacon  guides 
The  mariner  on  tropic  tides, 
And  flames  across  the  Gulf  afar, 
A  torch  by  day,  by  night  a  star,  — 


'  Two  thousand  feet  in  air  it  stands."     P; 


THE  MOUNTAIN.  267 

Not  thus,  to  cleave  the  outer  skies, 
Does  my  serener  mountain  rise, 
Nor  aye  forget  its  gentle  birth 
Upon  the  dewy,  pastoral  earth. 

But  ever,  in  the  noonday  light, 

Are  scenes  whereof  I  love  the  sight,  — 

Broad  pictures  of  the  lower  world 

Beneath  my  gladdened  eyes  unfurled. 

Irradiate  distances  reveal 

Fair  nature  wed  to  human  weal ; 

The  rolling  valley  made  a  plain  ; 

Its  checkered  squares  of  grass  and  grain  ; 

The  silvery  rye,  the  golden  wheat, 

The  flowery  elders  where  they  meet,  — 

Ay,  even  the  springing  corn  I  see, 

And  garden  haunts  of  bird  and  bee  ; 

And  where,  in  daisied  meadows,  shines 

The  wandering  river  through  its  vines, 

Move  specks  at  random,  which  I  know 

Are  herds  a-grazing  to  and  fro. 

Yet  still  a  goodly  height  it  seems 

From  which  the  mountain  pours  his  streams, 

Or  hinders,  with  caressing  hands, 

The  sunlight  seeking  other  lands. 

Like  some  great  giant,  strong  and  proud, 

He  fronts  the  lowering  thunder-cloud, 

And  wrests  its  treasures,  to  bestow 

A  guerdon  on  the  realm  below  ; 

Or,  by  the  deluge  roused  from  sleep 

Within  his  bristling  forest-keep, 

Shakes  all  his  pines,  and  far  and  wide 

Sends  down  a  rich,  imperious  tide. 


268  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

At  night  the  whistling  tempests  meet 
In  tryst  upon  his  topmost  seat, 
And  all  the  phantoms  of  the  sky 
Frolic  and  gibber,  storming  by. 

By  day  I  see  the  ocean-mists 

Float  with  the  current  where  it  lists, 

And  from  my  summit  I  can  hail 

Cloud-vessels  passing  on  the  gale,  — 

The  stately  argosies  of  air,  — 

And  parley  with  the  helmsmen  there  ; 

Can  probe  their  dim,  mysterious  source, 

Ask  of  their  cargo  and  their  course,  — 

Whence  come ?  where  bound?  —  and  wait  reply, 

As,  all  sails  spread,  they  hasten  by. 

If,  foiled  in  what  I  fain  would  know, 
Again  I  turn  my  eyes  below 
And  eastward,  past  the  hither  mead 
Where  all  day  long  the  cattle  feed, 
A  crescent  gleam  my  sight  allures 
And  clings  about  the  hazy  moors,  — 
The  great,  encircling,  radiant  sea, 
Alone  in  its  immensity. 

Even  there,  a  queen  upon  its  shore, 
I  know  the  city  evermore 
Her  palaces  and  temples  rears, 
And  wooes  the  nations  to  her  piers ; 
Yet  the  proud  city  seems  a  mole 
To  this  horizon-bounded  whole  ; 
And,  from  my  station  on  the  mount, 
The  whole  is  little  worth  account 
Beneath  the  overhanging  sky, 


THE  MOUNTAIN.  269 

That  seems  so  far  and  yet  so  nigh. 
Here  breathe  I  inspiration  rare, 
Unburdened  by  the  grosser  air 
That  hugs  the  lower  land,  and  feel 
Through  all  my  finer  senses  steal 
The  life  of  what  that  life  may  be, 
Freed  from  this  dull  earth's  density, 
When  we,  with  many  a  soul-felt  thrill, 
Shall  thrid  the  ether  at  our  will, 
Through  widening  corridors  of  morn 
And  starry  archways  swiftly  borne. 

Here,  in  the  process  of  the  night, 

The  stars  themselves  a  purer  light 

Give  out,  than  reaches  those  who  gaze 

Enshrouded  with  the  valley's  haze. 

October,  entering  Heaven's  fane, 

Assumes  her  lucent,  annual  reign  : 

Then  what  a  dark  and  dismal  clod, 

Forsaken  by  the  Sons  of  God, 

Seems  this  sad  world,  to  those  which  march 

Across  the  high,  illumined  arch, 

And  with  their  brightness  draw  me  forth 

To  scan  the  splendors  of  the  North  ! 

I  see  the  Dragon,  as  he  toils 

With  Ursa  in  his  shining  coils, 

And  mark  the  Huntsman  lift  his  shield, 

Confronting  on  the  ancient  field 

The  Bull,  while  in  a  mystic  row 

The  jewels  of  his  girdle  glow  ; 

Or,  haply,  I  may  ponder  long 

On  that  remoter,  sparkling  throng, 

The  orient  sisterhood,  around 

Whose  chief  our  Galaxy  is  wound ; 


2/0 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Thus,  half  enwrapt  in  classic  dreams, 
And  brooding  over  Learning's  gleams, 
I  leave  to  gloom  the  under-land, 
And  from  my  watch-tower,  close  at  hand, 
Like  him  who  led  the  favored  race, 
I  look  on  glory  face  to  face  ! 

So,  on  the  mountain-top,  alone, 
I  dwell,  as  one  who  holds  a  throne ; 
Or  prince,  or  peasant,  him  I  count 
My  peer,  who  stands  upon  a  mount, 
Sees  farther  than  the  tribes  below, 
And  knows  the  joys  they  cannot  know  ; 
And,  though  beyond  the  sound  of  speech 
They  reign,  my  soul  goes  out  to  reach, 
Far  on  their  noble  heights  elsewhere, 
My  brother-monarchs  of  the  air. 


HOLYOKE  VALLEY. 

"  Something  sweet 
Followed  youth,  with  flying  feet, 
And  will  never  come  again." 

HOW  many  years  have  made  their  flights, 
Northampton,  over  thee  and  me, 
Since  last  I  scaled  those  purple  heights 
That  guard  the  pathway  to  the  sea  ; 

Or  climbed,  as  now,  the  topmost  crown 
Of  western  ridges,  whence  again 

I  see,  for  miles  beyond  the  town, 
That  sunlit  stream  divide  the  plain  ? 


HOLYOKE    VALLEY. 

There  still  the  giant  warders  stand 

And  watch  the  current's  downward  flow, 

And  northward  still,  with  threatening  hand, 
The  river  bends  his  ancient  bow. 

I  see  the  hazy  lowlands  meet 

The  sky,  and  count  each  shining  spire, 
From  those  which  sparkle  at  my  feet 

To  distant  steeples  tipt  with  fire. 

For  still,  old  town,  thou  art  the  same  : 
The  redbreasts  sing  their  choral  tune, 

Within  thy  mantling  elms  aflame, 
As  in  that  other,  dearer  June, 

When  here  my  footsteps  entered  first, 
And  summer  perfect  beauty  wore, 

And  all  thy  charms  upon  me  burst, 
While  Life's  whole  journey  lay  before. 

Here  every  fragrant  walk  remains, 
Where  happy  maidens  come  and  go, 

And  students  saunter  in  the  lanes 
And  hum  the  songs  I  used  to  know. 

I  gaze,  yet  find  myself  alone, 

And  walk  with  solitary  feet : 
How  strange  these  wonted  ways  have  grown ! 

Where  are  the  friends  I  used  to  meet  ? 

In  yonder  shaded  Academe 
The  rippling  metres  flow  to-day, 

But  other  boys  at  sunset  dream 
Of  love,  and  laurels  far  away  ; 


271 


272  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

And  ah  !  from  yonder  trellised  home, 
Less  sweet  the  faces  are  that  peer 

Than  those  of  old,  and  voices  come 
Less  musically  to  my  ear. 

Sigh  not,  ye  breezy  elms,  but  give 

The  murmur  of  my  sweetheart's  vows, 

When  Life  was  something  worth  to  live, 
And  Love  was  young  beneath  your  boughs 

Fade  beauty,  smiling  everywhere, 
That  can  from  year  to  year  outlast 

Those  charms  a  thousand  times  more  fair, 
And,  O,  our  joys  so  quickly  past ! 

Or  smile  to  gladden  fresher  hearts 

Henceforth  :  but  they  shall  yet  be  led, 

Revisiting  these  ancient  parts, 
Like  me  to  mourn  their  glory  fled. 


THE    FEAST   OF   HARVEST. 

'  I  "'HE  fair  Earth  smiled  and  turned  herself  and  woke, 
-*-     And  to  the  Sun  with  nuptial  greeting  said  : 
"  I  had  a  dream,  wherein  it  seemed  men  broke 

A  sovran  league,  and  long  years  fought  and  bled, 
Till  down  my  sweet  sides  ran  my  children's  gore, 
And  all  my  beautiful  garments  were  made  red, 
And  all  my  fertile  fields  were  thicket-grown, 
Nor  could  thy  dear  light  reach  me  through  the  air ; 
At  last  a  voice  cried,  '  Let  them  strive  no  more  ! ' 
Then  music  breathed,  and  lo  !  from  my  despair 
I  wake  to  joy,  —  yet  would  not  joy  alone  ! 


THE  FEAST  OF  HARVEST.  2/3 

"  For,  hark  !  I  hear  a  murmur  on  the  meads,  — 

Where  as  of  old  my  children  seek  my  face,  — 
The  low  of  kine,  the  peaceful  tramp  of  steeds, 

Blithe  shouts  of  men  in  many  a  pastoral  place, 
The  noise  of  tilth  through  all  my  goodliest  land, 

And  happy  laughter  of  a  dusky  race 

Whose  brethren  lift  them  from  their  ancient  toil, 

Saying  :  "  The  year  of  jubilee  has  come ; 
Gather  the  gifts  of  Earth  with  equal  hand  ; 

Henceforth  ye  too  may  share  the  birthright  soil, 

The  corn,  the  wine,  and  all  the  harvest-home." 

"  O  my  dear  lord,  my  radiant  bridegroom,  look  ! 

Behold  their  joy  who  sorrowed  in  my  dreams,  — 
The  sword  a  share,  the  spear  a  pruning-hook  ; 

Lo,  I  awake,  and  turn  me  toward  thy  beams 
Even  as  a  bride  again  !     O,  shed  thy  light 

Upon  my  fruitful  places  in  full  streams  ! 
Let  there  be  yield  for  every  living  thing  ; 

The  land  is  fallow,  —  let  there  be  increase 
After  the  darkness  of  the  sterile  night ; 

Ay,  let  us  twain  a  festival  of  Peace 

Prepare,  and  hither  all  my  nations  bring  ! " 

The  fair  Earth  spake :  the  glad  Sun  speeded  forth, 

Hearing  her  matron  words,  and  backward  drave 
To  frozen  caves  the  icy  Wind  of  the  North,  — 

And  bade  the  South  Wind  from  the  tropic  wave 
Bring  watery  vapors  over  river  and  plain,  — 

And  bade  the  East  Wind  cross  her  path,  and  lave 
The  lowlands,  emptying  there  her  laden  mist,  — 

And  bade  the  Wind  of  the  West,  the  best  wind,  blow 
After  the  early  and  the  latter  rain,  — 

And  beamed  himself,  and  oft  the  sweet  Earth  kissed, 

While  her  swift  servitors  sped  to  and  fro. 

12*  R 


274  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Forthwith  the  troop  that,  at  the  beck  of  Earth, 

Foster  her  children,  brought  a  glorious  store 
Of  viands,  food  of  immemorial  worth, 

Her  earliest  gifts,  her  tenderest  evermore. 
First  came  the  Silvery  Spirit,  whose  marshalled  files 

Climb  up  the  glades  in  billowy  breakers  hoar, 
Nodding  their  crests  ;  and  at  his  side  there  sped 

The  Golden  Spirit,  whose  yellow  harvests  trail 
Across  the  continents  and  fringe  the  isles, 

And  freight  men's  argosies  where'er  they  sail : 
O,  what  a  wealth  of  sheaves  he  there  outspread  ! 

Came  the  dear  Spirit  whom  Earth  doth  love  the  best, 

Fragrant  of  clover-bloom  and  new-mown  hay, 
Beneath  whose  mantle  weary  ones  finds  rest, 

On  whose  green  skirts  the  little  children  play  : 
She  bore  the  food  our  patient  cattle  crave. 

Next,  robed  in  silk,  with  tassels  scattering  spray, 
Followed' the  generous  Spirit  of  the  Maize  ; 

And  many  a  kindred  shape  of  high  renown 
Bore  in  the  clustering  grape,  the  fruits  that  wave 
On  orchard  branches  or  in  gardens  blaze, 

And  those  the  wind-shook  forest  hurtles  down. 

Even  thus  they  laid  a  great  and  marvellous  feast, 

And  Earth  her  children  summoned  joyously, 
Throughout  that  goodliest  land  wherein  had  ceased 

The  vision  of  battle,  and  with  glad  hands  free 
These  took  their  fill,  and  plenteous  measures  poured, 

Beside,  for  those  who  dwelt  beyond  the  sea ; 
Praise,  like  an  incense,  upward  rose  to  Heaven 

For  that  full  harvest ;  and  the  autumnal  Sun 
.Stayed  long  above  ;  and  ever  at  the  board, 

Peace,  white-robed  angel,  held  the  high  seat  given, 

And  War  far  off  withdrew  his  visage  dun. 


WHAT  THE    WINDS  BRING. 


275 


AUTUMN  SONG. 

TV  T  O  clouds  are  in  the  morning  sky, 
•L  ^    The  vapors  hug  the  stream,  — 
Who  says  that  life  and  love  can  die 

In  all  this  northern  gleam  ? 
At  every  turn  the  maples  burn, 

The  quail  is  whistling  free, 
The  partridge  whirs,  and  the  frosted  burs 

Are  dropping  for  you  and  me. 
Ho!  hilly  ho!  heigh  Oi 

Hilly  ho  ! 
In  the  clear  October  morning. 

Along  our  path  the  woods  are  bold, 

And  glow  with  ripe  desire  ; 
The  yellow  chestnut  showers  its  gold, 

The  sumachs  spread  their  fire  ; 
The  breezes  feel  as  crisp  as  steel, 

The  buckwheat  tops  are  red  : 
Then  down  the  lane,  love,  scurry  again, 

And  over  the  stubble  tread  ! 
Ho  f  hilly  ho  >  heigh  O  ! 

Hilly  ho  ! 
In  the  clear  October  morning. 


WHAT  THE  WINDS  BRING. 

"X  I  7 HIGH  is  the  Wind  that  brings  the  cold  ?- 

*  *    The  North- Wind,  Freddy,  and  all  the  snow  ; 
And  the  sheep  will  scamper  into  the  fold 
When  the  North  begins  to  blow. 


276  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Which  is  the  Wind  that  brings  the  heat  ? 

The  South- Wind,  Katy  ;  and  corn  will  grow, 
And  peaches  redden  for  you  to  eat, 

When  the  South  begins  to  blow. 

Which  is  the  Wind  that  brings  the  rain  ? 

The  East-Wind,  Arty  ;  and  farmers  know 
That  cows  come  shivering  up  the  lane 

When  the  East  begins  to  blow. 

Which  is  the  Wind  that  brings  the  flowers  ? 
The  West- Wind,  Bessy ;  and  soft  and  low 
The  birdies  sing  in  the  summer  hours 
West  begins  to  blow. 


BETROTHED  ANEW. 

THE  sunlight  fills  the  trembling  air, 
And  balmy  days  their  guerdons  bring  ; 
the  Earth  again  is  young  and  fair, 
And  amorous  with  musky  Spring. 

The,golden  nurslings  of  the  May 

In  splendor  strew  the  spangled  green, 

And  hues  of  tender  beauty  play, 
Entangled  where  the  willows  lean. 

Mark  how  the  rippled  currents  flow  : 
What  lustres  on  the  meadows  lie  ! 

And  hark,  the  songsters  come  and  go, 
And  trill  between  the  earth  and  sky. 


BETROTHED  ANEW. 

Who  told  us  that  the  years  had  fled, 
Or  borne  afar  our  blissful  youth  ? 

Such  joys  are  all  about  us  spread, 
We  know  the  whisper  was  not  truth. 

The  birds,  that  break  from  grass  and  grove, 
Sing  every  carol  that  they  sung 

When  first  our  veins  were  rich  with  love, 
And  May  her  mantle  round  us  flung. 

O  fresh-lit  dawn  !  immortal  life  ! 

0  Earth's  betrothal,  sweet  and  true, 
With  whose  delights  our  souls  are  rife 

And  aye  their  vernal  vows  renew  ! 

Then,  darling,  walk  with  me  this  monv: 
Let  your  brown  tresses  drink  its  sheen ; 

These  violets,  within  them  worn, 
Of  floral  fays  shall  make  you  queen. 

What  though  there  comes  a  time  of  pain 
When  autumn  winds  forbode  decay ; 

The  days  of  love  are  born  again, 
That  fabled  time  is  far  away  ! 

And  never  seemed  the  land  so  fair 

As  now,  nor  birds  such  notes  to  sing, 
Since  first  within  your  shining  hair 

1  wove  the  blossoms  of  the  Spring. 


277 


III. 

SHADOW-LAND. 

"THE   UNDISCOVERED   COUNTRY." 

COULD  we  but  know 
The  land  that  ends  our  dark,  uncertain  travel, 
Where  lie  those  happier  hills  and  meadows  low,  - 
Ah,  if  beyond  the  spirit's  inmost  cavil, 

Aught  of  that  country  could  we  surely  know, 
Who  would  not  go  ? 

Might  we  but  hear 
The  hovering  angels'  high  imagined  chorus, 

Or  catch,  betimes,  with  wakeful  eyes  and  clear, 
One  radiant  vista  of  the  realm  before  us,  — 
With  one  rapt  moment  given  to  see  and  hear, 
Ah,  who  would  fear  ? 

Were  we  quite  sure 

To  find  the  peerless  friend  who  left  us  lonely, 

Or  there,  by  some  celestial  stream  as  pure, 

To  gaze  in  eyes  that  here  were  lovelit  only,  — 

This  weary  mortal  coil,  were  we  quite  sure, 

Who  would  endure  ? 


THE  ASSAULT  BY  NIGHT. 


"DARKNESS  AND  THE  SHADOW." 

WAKING,  I  have  been  nigh  to  Death, 
Have  felt  the  chillness  of  his  breath 
Whiten  my  cheek  and  numb  my  heart, 
And  wondered  why  he  stayed  his  dart,  — 
Yet  quailed  not,  but  could  meet  him  so, 
As  any  lesser  friend  or  foe. 

But  sleeping,  in  the  dreams  of  night, 
His  phantom  stifles  me  with  fright ! 
O  God  !  what  frozen  horrors  fall 
Upon  me  with  his  visioned  pall : 
The  movelessness,  the  unknown  dread, 
Fair  life  to  pulseless  silence  wed  ! 

And  is  the  grave  so  darkly  deep, 
So  hopeless,  as  it  seems  iri  sleep  ? 
Can  our  sweet  selves  the  coffin  hold 
So  dumb  within  its  crumbling  mould  ? 
And  is  the  shroud  so  dank  and  drear 
A  garb,  —  the  noisome  worm  so  near  ? 

Where  then  is  Heaven's  mercy  fled,  — 
To  quite  forget  the  voiceless  dead? 


THE  ASSAULT  BY  NIGHT. 

A  LL  night  we  hear  the  rattling  flaw, 
**•  The  casements  shiver  with  each  breath  ; 
And  still  more  near  the  foemen  draw, 
The  pioneers  of  Death. 


279 


28o  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Their  grisly  chieftain  comes  : 
He  steals  upon  us  in  the  night ; 
Call  up  the  guards  !  light  every  light ! 

Beat  the  alarum  drums  ! 

His  tramp  is  at  the  outer  door ; 

He  bears  against  the  shuddering  walls  ; 
Lo  !  what  a  dismal  frost  and  hoar 
Upon  the  window  falls  ! 
Outbar  him  while  ye  may  ! 
Feed,  feed  the  watch-fires  everywhere,  — 
Even  yet  their  cheery  warmth  will  scare 
This  thing  of  night  away. 

Ye  cannot !  something  chokes  the  grate 

And  clogs  the  air  within  its  flues, 
And  runners  from  the  entrance-gate 
Come  chill  with  evil  news  : 
The  bars  are  broken  ope  ! 
Ha  !  he  has  scaled  the  inner  wall ! 
But  fight  him  still,  from  hall  to  hall ; 
While  life  remains,  there 's  hope. 

Too  late !  the  very  frame  is  dust, 

The  locks  and  trammels  fall  apart ; 
He  reaches,  scornful  of  their  trust, 
The  portals  of  the  heart. 
Ay,  take  the  citadel ! 
But  where,  grim  Conqueror,  is  thy  prey  ? 
In  vain  thou  'It  search  each  secret  way, 
Its  flight  is  hidden  well. 

We  yield  thee,  for  thy  paltry  spoils, 
This  shell,  this  ruin  thou  hast  made  ; 


GEORGE  ARNOLD.  28l 

Its  tenant  has  escaped  thy  toils, 

Though  they  were  darkly  laid. 
Even  now,  immortal,  pure, 

It  gains  a  house  not  made  with  hands, 

A  refuge  in  serener  lands, 
A  heritage  secure. 


GEORGE  ARNOLD. 

GREENWOOD,  NOVEMBER    13,  186$. 

"\  \  TE  stood  around  the  dreamless  form 

*  •     Whose  strength  was  so  untimely  shaken, 
Whose  sleep  not  all  our  love  could  warm, 
Nor  any  dearest  voice  awaken  ; 

And  while  the  Autumn  breathed  her  sighs, 
And  dropped  a  thousand  leafy  glories, 

And  all  the  pathways,  and  the  skies, 
Were  mindful  of  his  songs  and  stories, 

Nor  failed  to  wear  the  mingled  hues 
He  loved,  and  knew  so  well  to  render, 

But  wooed ,  —  alas,  in  vain  !  —  their  Muse 
For  one  more  tuneful  lay  and  tender, 

We  paused  awhile,  —  the  gathered  few 
Who  came,  in  longing,  not  in  duty, — 

With  eyes  that  full  of  weeping  grew, 
To  look  their  last  upon  his  beauty. 


282  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Death  would  not  rudely  rob  that  face, 
Nor  dim  its  fine  Arcadian  brightness, 

But  gave  the  lines  a  clearer  grace, 

And  sleep's  repose,  and  marble's  whiteness. 

And,  gazing  there  on  him  so  young, 
We  thought  of  all  his  ended  mission, 

The  broken  links,  the  songs  unsung, 
The  love  that  found  no  ripe  fruition  ; 

Till  last  the  old,  old  question  came 

To  hearts  that  beat  with  life  around  him, 

Why  Death,  with  downward  torch  aflame, 
Had  searched  our  number  till  he  found  him  ? 

Why  passed  the  one  who  poorly  knows 
That  blithesome  spell  for  either  fortune, 

Or  mocked  with  lingering  menace  those 
Whose  pains  the  final  thrust  importune  ; 

Or  left  the  toiling  ones  who  bear 

The  crowd's  neglect,  the  want  that  presses, 

The  woes  no  human  soul  can  share, 
Nor  look,  nor  spoken  word,  confesses. 

And  from  the  earth  no  answer  came, 
The  forest  wore  a  stillness  deeper, 

The  sky  and  lake  smiled  on  the  same, 
And  voiceless  as  the  silent  sleeper. 

And  so  we  turned  ourselves  away, 
By  earth  and  air  and  water  chidden, 

And  left  him  with  them,  where  he  lay, 
A  sharer  of  their  secret  hidden. 


THE  SAD  BRIDAL. 


283 


And  each  the  staff  and  shell  again 

Took  up,  and  marched  with  memories  haunted ; 
But  henceforth,  in  our  pilgrim-strain, 

We  '11  miss  a  voice  that  sweetly  chaunted ! 


THE  SAD  BRIDAL. 

WHAT  would  you  do,  my  dear  one  said,- 
What  would  you  do,  if  I  were  dead  ? 
If  Death  should  mumble,  as  he  list, 
These  red  lips  which  now  you  kist  ? 
What  would  my  love  do,  were  I  wed 
To  that  ghastly  groom  instead  ; 
If  o'er  me,  in  the  chancel,  Death 
Should  cast  his  amaranthine  wreath, — 
Before  my  eyes,  with  fingers  pale, 
Draw  down  the  mouldy  bridal  veil  ? 
—  Ah  no  !  no  !  it  cannot  be  ! 
Death  would  spare  their  light,  and  flee, 
And  leave  my  love  to  Life  and  me ! 


OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 


SEVERAL  of  the  earlier  productions  under  this  title  are  reprinted  in  an- 
swer to  frequent  requests  for  copies  of  them,  and  in  deference  to  a  public 
sentiment  which  received  them  kindly  when  they  first  appeared. 


OCCASIONAL     POEMS, 


SUMTER. 
APRIL    12,    1871. 


the  morning  of  that  day 
"  When  the  God  to  whom  we  pray 
Gave  the  soul  of  Henry  Clay 

To  the  land  ; 

How  we  loved  him,  living,  dying  ! 
But  his  birthday  banners  flying 
Saw  us  asking  and  replying 
Hand  to  hand. 

For  we  knew  that  far  away, 
Round  the  fort  in  Charleston  Bay, 
Hung  the  dark  impending  fray, 

Soon  to  fall  ; 

And  that  Sumter's  brave  defender 
Had  the  summons  to  surrender 
Seventy  loyal  hearts  and  tender,  — 

(Those  were  all  !) 


288  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

And  we  knew  the  April  sun 
Lit  the  length  of  many  a  gun,  — 
Hosts  of  batteries  to  the  one 

Island  crag ; 

Guns  and  mortars  grimly  frowning, 
Johnson,  Moultrie,  Pinckney,  crowning, 
And  ten  thousand  men  disowning 

The  old  flag. 

O,  the  fury  of  the  fight 

Even  then  was  at  its  height ! 

Yet  no  breath,  from  noon  till  night, 

Reached  us  here  ; 
We  had  almost  ceased  to  wonder, 
And  the  day  had  faded  under, 
When  the  echo  of  the  thunder 

Filled  each  ear ! 

Then  our  hearts  more  fiercely  beat, 
As  we  crowded  on  the  street, 
Hot  to  gather  and  repeat 

All  the  tale ; 

All  the  doubtful  chances  turning, 
Till  our  souls  with  shame  were  burning, 
As  if  twice  our  bitter  yearning 

Could  avail  ! 

Who  had  fired  the  earliest  gun  ? 
Was  the  fort  by  traitors  won  ? 
Was  there  succor  ?    What  was  done 

Who  could  know  ? 

And  once  more  our  thoughts  would  wander 
To  the  gallant,  lone  commander, 
On  his  battered  ramparts  grander 

Than  the  foe. 


WANTED  — A   MAN.  289 

Not  too  long  the  brave  shall  wait : 
On  their  own  heads  be  their  fate, 
Who  against  the  hallowed  State 

Dare  begin  ; 

Flag  defied  and  compact  riven  ! 
In  the  record  of  high  Heaven 
How  shall  Southern  men  be  shriven 

For  the  sin  ? 


WANTED  — A  MAN. 

BACK  from  the  trebly  crimsoned  field 
Terrible  words  are  thunder-tost ; 
Full  of  the  wrath  that  will  not  yield, 
Full  of  revenge  for  battles  lost ! 
Hark  to  their  echo,  as  it  crost 
The  Capital,  making  faces  wan  : 

"  End  this  murderous  holocaust ; 
Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  ! 

"  Give  us  a  man  of  God's  own  mould, 

Born  to  marshal  his  fellow-men  ; 
One  whose  fame  is  not  bought  and  sold 

At  the  stroke  of  a  politician^  pen ; 

Give  us  the  man  of  thousands  ten, 
Fit  to  do  as  well  as  to  plan  ; 

Give  us  a  rallying-cry,  and  then, 
Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  ! 

"  No  leader  to  shirk  the  boasting  foe, 

And  to  march  and  countermarch  our  brave, 


290 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Till  they  fall  like  ghosts  in  the  marshes  low, 
And  swamp-grass  covers  each  nameless  grave 
Nor  another,  whose  fatal  banners  wave 

Aye  in  Disaster's  shameful  van  ; 

Nor  another,  to  bluster,  and  lie,  and  rave ;  — 

Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  ! 

"  Hearts  are  mourning  in  the  North, 

While  the  sister  rivers  seek  the  main, 
Red  with  our  life-blood  flowing  forth,  — 

Who  shall  gather  it  up  again  ? 

Though  we  march  to  the  battle-plain 
Firmly  as  when  the  strife  began, 

Shall  all  our  offering  be  in  vain  ?  — 
Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  ! 

"Is  there  never  one  in  all  the  land, 

One  on  whose  might  the  Cause  may  lean  ? 
Are  all  the  common  ones  so  grand, 

And  all  the  titled  ones  so  mean  ? 

What  if  your  failure  may  have  been 
In  trying  to  make  good  bread  from  bran, 

From  worthless  metal  a  weapon  keen  ?  — 
Abraham  Lincoln,  find  us  a  MAN  ! 


"  O,  we  will  follow  him  to  the  death, 

Where  therfbeman's  fiercest  columns  are  ! 
O,  we  will  use  our  latest  breath, 

Cheering  for  every  sacred  star  ! 

His  to  marshal  us  high  and  far ; 
Ours  to  battle,  as  patriots  can 

When  a  Hero  leads  the  Holy  War  !  — 
Abraham  Lincoln,  give  us  a  MAN  !  " 

September  8,  1862. 


TREASON'S  LAST  DEVICE. 


29I 


TREASON'S  LAST  DEVICE. 

O  ONS  of  New  England,  in  the  fray, 

^    Do  you  hear  the  clamor  behind  your  back  ? 

Do  you  hear  the  yelping  of  Blanche,  and  Tray, 

Sweetheart,  and  all  the  mongrel  pack  ? 
Girded  well  with  her  ocean  crags, 

Little  our  mother  heeds  their  noise  ; 
Her  eyes  are  fixed  on  crimsoned  flags : 

But  you  —  do  you  hear  it,  Yankee  boys  ? 

Do  you  hear  them  say  that  the  patriot  fire 

Burns  on  her  altars  too  pure  and  bright, 
To  the  darkened  heavens  leaping  higher, 

Though  drenched  with  the  blood  of  every  fight ; 
That  in  the  light  of  its  searching  flame 

Treason  and  tyrants  stand  revealed, 
And  the  yielding  craven  is  put  to  shame, 

On  Capitol  floor  or  foughten  field  ? 

Do  you  hear  the  hissing  voice,  which  saith 

That  she  —  who  bore  through  all  the  land 
The  lyre  of  Freedom,  the  torch  of  Faith, 

And  young  Invention's  mystic  wand  — 
Should  gather  her  skirts  and  dwell  apart, 

With  not  one  of  her  sisters  to  share  her  fate,  — 
A  Hagar,  wandering  sick  at  heart ; 

A  pariah,  bearing  the  Nation's  hate  ? 

Sons,  who  have  peopled  the  distant  West, 
And  planted  the  Pilgrim  vine  anew, 

Where,  by  a  richer  soil  carest, 
It  grows  as  ever  its  parent  grew, 


292  OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 

Say,  do  you  hear,  —  while  the  very  bells 
Of  your  churches  ring  with  her  ancient  voice, 

And  the  song  of  your  children  sweetly  tells 
How  true  was  the  land  of  your  fathers'  choice,  • 

Do  you  hear  the  traitors  who  bid  you  speak 

The  word  that  shall  sever  the  sacred  tie  ? 
And  ye,  who  dwell  by  the  golden  Peak, 

Has  the  subtle  Whisper  glided  by  ? 
Has  it  crost  the  immemorial  plains, 

To  coasts  where  the  gray  Pacific  roars 
And  the  Pilgrim  blood  in  the  people's  veins 

Is  pure  as  the  wealth  of  their  mountain  ores? 

Spirits  of  sons  who,  side  by  side, 

In  a  hundred  battles  fought  and  fell, 
Whom  now  no  East  and  West  divide, 

In  the  isles  where  the  shades  of  heroes  dwell ; 
Say,  has  it  reached'  your  glorious  rest, 

And  ruffled  the  calm  which  crowns  you  there,  - 
The  shame  that  recreants  have  confest, 

The  plot  that  floats  in  the  troubled  air  ? 

Sons  of  New  England,  here  and  there, 

Wherever  men  are  still  holding  by 
The  honor  our  fathers  left  so  fair  ! 

Say,  do  you  hear  the  cowards'  cry  ? 
Crouching  among  her  grand  old  crags, 

Lightly  our  mother  heeds  their  noise, 
With  her  fond  eyes  fixed  on  distant  flags  ; 

But  you  —  do  you  hear  it,  Yankee  boys  ? 

Washington,  January  19,  1863. 


ISRAEL  FREYER'S  BID  FOR   GOLD.     293 
ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

ASSASSINATED   GOOD   FRIDAY,    186$. 

"  "T^ORGI  VE  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do  ! " 

-*-      He  said,  and  so  went  shriven  to  his  fate, — 
Unknowing  went,  that  generous  heart  and  true. 

Even  while  he  spoke  the  slayer  lay  in  wait, 

And  when  the  morning  opened  Heaven's  gate 
There  passed  the  whitest  soul  a  nation  knew. 

Henceforth  all  thoughts  of  pardon  are  too  late ; 
They,  in  whose  cause  that  arm  its  weapon  drew, 

Have  murdered  Mercy.     Now  alone  shall  stand 
Blind  Justice,  with  the  sword  unsheathed  she  wore. 

Hark,  from  the  eastern  to  the  western  strand, 
The  swelling  thunder  of  the  people's  roar : 

What  words  they  murmur,  —  Fetter  not  her  hand  ! 
So  let  it  smite,  such  deeds  shall  be  no  more  ! 


ISRAEL  FREYER'S  BID  FOR  GOLD. 

FRIDAY,  SEPTEMBER  24,  1869. 

^7  OUNDS  !  how  the  price  went  flashing  through 

*-*  Wall  street,  William,  Broad  street,  NewJ 

All  the  specie  in  all  the  land 

Held  in  one  Ring  by  a  giant  hand  — - 

For  millions  more  it  was  ready  to  pay, 

And  throttle  the  Street  on  hangman's-day. 

Up  from  the  Gold  Pit's  nether  hell, 

While  the  innocent  fountain  rose  and  fell, 


294  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Loud  and  higher  the  bidding  rose, 
And  the  bulls,  triumphant,  faced  their  foes. 
It  seemed  as  if  Satan  himself  were  in  it : 
Lifting  it  —  one  per  cent  a  minute  — 
Through  the  bellowing  broker,  there  amid, 
Who  made  the  terrible,  final  bid  ! 
High  over  all,  and  ever  higher, 
Was  heard  the  voice  of  Israel  Freyer, — 
A  doleful  knell  in  the  storm-swept  mart,  — 
"  Five  millions  more  !  and  for  any  part 
"  I  '11  give  One  Hundred  and  Sixty  !  " 

Israel  Freyer  —  the  Government  Jew  — 

Good  as  the  best  —  soaked  through  and  through 

With  credit  gained  in  the  year  he  sold 

Our  Treasury's  precious  hoard  of  gold  ; 

Now  through  his  thankless  mouth  rings  out 

The  leaguers'  last  and  cruellest  shout ! 

Pity  the  shorts  ?     Not  they,  indeed, 

While  a  single  rival 's  left  to  bleed  ! 

Down  come  dealers  in  silks  and  hides, 

Crowding  the  Gold  Room's  rounded  sides, 

Jostling,  trampling  each  other's  feet, 

Uttering  groans  in  the  outer  street ; 

Watching,  with  upturned  faces  pale, 

The  scurrying  index  mark  its  tale  ; 

Hearing  the  bid  of  Israel  Freyer,  — 
That  ominous  voice,  would  it  never  tire? 
"  Five  millions  more  !  —  for  any  part, 
(If  it  breaks  your  firm,  if  it  cracks  your  heart,) 
I  '11  give  One  Hundred  and  Sixty  !  " 

One  Hundred  and  Sixty  !     Can't  be  true  ! 
What  will  the  bears-at-forty  do  ? 


ISRAEL  FREYER' S  BID  FOR   GOLD. 


295 


How  will  the  merchants  pay  their  dues  ? 
How  will  the  country  stand  the  news  ? 
What  '11  the  banks  —  but  listen  !  hold  ! 
In  screwing  upward  the  price  of  gold 
To  that  dangerous,  last,  particular  peg, 
They  had  killed  their  Goose  with  the  Golden  Egg  ! 
Just  there  the  metal  came  pouring  out, 
All  ways  at  once,  like  a  water-spout, 
Or  a  rushing,  gushing,  yellow  flood, 
That  drenched  the  bulls  wherever  they  stood  ! 
Small  need  to  open  the  Washington  main, 
Their  coffer-dams  were  burst  with  the  strain  ! 
It  came  by  runners,  it  came  by  wire, 
To  answer  the  bid  of  Israel  Freyer, 
It  poured  in  millions  from  every  side, 
And  almost  strangled  him  as  he  cried,  — 
u  I  '11  give  One  Hundred  and  Sixty  !  " 

Like  Vulcan  after  Jupiter's  kick, 
Or  the  aphoristical  Rocket's  stick, 
Down,  down,  down,  the  premium  fell, 
Faster  than  this  rude  rhyme  can  tell ! 
Thirty  per  cent  the  index  slid, 
Yet  Freyer  still  kept  making  his  bid,  — 
"  One  Hundred  and  Sixty  for  any  part ! " 
—  The  sudden  ruin  had  crazed  his  heart, 
Shattered  his  senses,  cracked  his  brain, 
And  left  him  crying  again  and  again,  — 
Still  making  his  bid  at  the  market's  top 
(Like  the  Dutchman's  leg  that  never  could  stop,) 
"One  Hundred  and  Sixty—  Five  Millions  more  !" 
Till  they  dragged  him,  howling,  off  the  floor. 
The  very  last  words  that  seller  and  buyer 
Heard  from  the  mouth  of  Israel  Freyer— 


296  OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 

A  cry  to  remember  long  as  they  live  — 
Were,  "  I  '11  take  Five  Millions  more  !  I  ;11  give,  - 
I  '11  give  One  Hundred  and  Sixty  !  " 

Suppose  (to  avoid  the  appearance  of  evil) 

There's  such  a  thing  as  a  Personal  Devil, 

It  would  seem  that  his  Highness  here  got  hold, 

For  once,  of  a  bellowing  Bull  in  Gold  ! 

Whether  bull  or  bear,  it  wouldn  't  much  matter 

Should  Israel  Freyer  keep  up  his  clatter 

On  earth  or  under  it  (as,  they  say, 

He  is  doomed)  till  the  general  Judgment  Day, 

When  the  Clerk,  as  he  cites  him  to  answer  for  't, 

Shall  bid  him  keep  silence  in  that  Court ! 

But  it  matters  most,  as  it  seems  to  me, 

That  my  countrymen,  great  and  strong  and  free, 

So  marvel  at  fellows  who  seem  to  win, 

That  if  even  a  Clown  can  only  begin 

By  stealing  a  railroad,  and  use  its  purse 

For  cornering  stocks  and  gold,  or  —  worse  — 

For  buying  a  Judge  and  Legislature, 

And  sinking  still  lower  poor  human  nature, 

The  gaping  public,  whatever  befall, 

Will  swallow  him,  tandem,  harlots,  and  all ! 

While  our  rich  men  drivel  and  stand  amazed 

At  the  dust  and  pother  his  gang  have  raised, 

And  make  us  remember  a  nursery  tale 

Of  the  four-and-twenty  who  feared  one  snail. 

What 's  bred  in  the  bone  will  breed,  you  know  ; 
Clowns  and  their  trainers,  high  and  low, 
Will  cut  such  capers,  long  as  they  dare, 
While  honest  Poverty  says  its  prayer. 
But  tell  me  what  prayer  or  fast  can  save 


CUBA.  297 

Some  hoary  candidate  for  the  grave, 
The  market's  wrinkled  Giant  Despair, 
Muttering,  brooding,  scheming  there,  — 
Founding  a  college  or  building  a  church 
Lest  Heaven  should  leave  him  in  the  lurch  ! 
Better  come  out  in  the  rival  way, 
Issue  your  scrip  in  open  day, 
And  pour  your  wealth  in  the  grimy  fist 
Of  some  gross-mouthed,  gambling  pugilist ; 
Leave  toil  and  poverty  where  they  lie, 
Pass  thinkers,  workers,  artists,  by, 
Your  pot-house  fag  from  his  counters  bring 
And  make  him  into  a  Railway  King  ! 
Between  such  Gentiles  and  such  Jews 
Little  enough  one  finds  to  choose : 
Either  the  other  will  buy  and  use, 
Eat  the  meat  and  throw  him  the  bone, 
And  leave  him  to  stand  the  brunt  alone. 

—  Let  the  tempest  come,  that 's  gathering  near, 
And  give  us  a  better  atmosphere ! 


CUBA. 

IS  it  naught  ?     Is  it  naught 
That  the  South-wind  brings  her  wail  to  our  shore, 
That  the  spoilers  compass  our  desolate  sister  ? 
Is  it  naught  ?     Must  we  say  to  her,  "  Strive  no  more." 
With  the  lips  wherewith  we  loved  her  and  kissed  her  ' 
With  the  mocking  lips  wherewith  we  said, 
"  Thou  art  the  dearest  and  fairest  to  us 
13* 


298  OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 

Of  all  the  daughters  the  sea  hath  bred, 
Of  all  green-girdled  isles  that  woo  us  !  " 
Is  it  naught  ? 

Must  ye  wait  ?     Must  ye  wait. 
Till  they  ravage  her  gardens  of  orange  and  palm, 

Till  her  heart  is  dust,  till  her  strength  is  water  ? 
Must  ye  see  them  trample  her,  and  be  calm 

As  priests  when  a  virgin  is  led  to  slaughter  ? 
Shall  they  smite  the  marvel  of  all  lands, — 

The  nation's  longing,  the  Earth's  completeness,  — 
On  her  red  mouth  dropping  myrrh,  her  hands 

Filled  with  fruitage  and  spice  and  sweetness  ? 
Must  ye  wait  ? 

In  the  day,  in  the  night, 
In  the  burning  day,  in  the  dolorous  night, 

Her  sun-browned  cheeks  are  stained  with  weeping. 
Her  watch-fires  beacon  the  misty  height :  — 

Why  are  her  friends  and  lovers  sleeping  ? 
"  Ye,  at  whose  ear  the  flatterer  bends, 

Who  were  my  kindred  before  all  others, — 
Hath  he  set  your  hearts  afar,  my  friends  ? 

Hath  he  made  ye  alien,  my  brothers, 
Day  and  night  ?  " 

Hear  ye  not  ?     Hear  ye  not 
From  the  hollow  sea  the  sound  of  her  voice  ; 

The  passionate,  far-off  tone,  which  sayeth  : 
"  Alas,  my  brothers  !  alas,  what  choice,  — 

The  lust  that  shameth,  the  sword  that  slayeth  ? 
They  bind  me  !  they  rend  my  delicate  locks  ; 

They  shred  the  beautiful  robes  I  won  me  ! 


CRETE.  299 

My  round  limbs  bleed  on  the  mountain  rocks  : 
Save  me,  ere  they  have  quite  undone  me  !  " 
Hear  ye  not  ? 

Speak  at  last !     Speak  at  last ! 
In  the  might  of  your  strength,  in  the  strength  of  your  right, 

Speak  out  at  last  to  the  treacherous  spoiler  ! 
Say  :  "  Will  ye  harry  her  in  our  sight  ? 

Ye  shall  not  trample  her  down,  nor  soil  her  ! 
Loose  her  bonds  !  let  her  rise  in  her  loveliness,  — 

Our  virginal  sister  ;  or,  if  ye  shame  her, 
Dark  Amnon  shall  rue  for  her  sore  distress, 
And  her  sure  revenge  shall  be  that  of  Tamar  !  " 

Speak  at  last ! 
1870. 


CRETE. 

THOUGH  Arkadi's  shattered  pile 
Hides  her  dead  without  a  dirge, 
Lo  !  where  still  the  mountain  isle 

Fronts  the  angry  Moslem  surge  ! 
Hers,  in  old,  heroic  days, 

Her  unfettered  heights  afar 

'Twixt  the  Grecian  Gulf  to  raise, 

And  the  torrid  Libyan  star. 

From  her  bulwarks  to  the  North 
Stretched  the  glad  ^gaean  Sea, 

Sending  bards  and  warriors  forth 
To  the  triumphs  of  the  free  ; 

111  the  fierce  invader  throve, 
When,  from  island  or  from  main, 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Side  by  side  the  Grecians  strove : 
Swift  he  sought  his  lair  again  ! 

Though  the  Cretan  eagle  fell, 

And  the  ancient  heights  were  won, 
Freedom's  light  was  guarded  well,  — 

Handed  down  from  sire  to  son  ; 
Through  the  centuries  of  shame, 

Ah  !  it  never  wholly  died, 
But  was  hid,  a  sacred  flame, 

There  on  topmost  Ida's  side. 

Shades  of  heroes  Homer  sung  — 

Wearing  once  her  hundred  crowns- 
Rise  with  shadowy  swords  among 

Candia's  smoking  fields  and  towns  ; 
Not  again  their  souls  shall  sleep, 

Nor  the  crescent  wane  in  peace, 
Till  from  every  island-keep 

Shines  the  starry  Cross  of  Greece. 


THE   OLD    ADMIRAL. 

GONE  at  last, 
That  brave  old  hero  of  the  Past ! 
His  spirit  has  a  second  birth, 

An  unknown,  grander  life  ;  — 
All  of  him  that  was  earth 

Lies  mute  and  cold, 

Like  a  wrinkled  sheath  and  old 
Thrown  off  forever  from  the  shimmering  blade 
That  has  good  entrance  made 

Upon  some  distant,  glorious  strife. 


THE   OLD  ADMIRAL.  30  j 

From  another  generation, 

A  simpler  age,  to  ours  Old  Ironsides  came  ; 
The  morn  and  noontide  of  the  nation 

Alike  he  knew,  nor  yet  outlived  his  fame,  — 

O,  not  outlived  his  fame  ! 
The  dauntless  men  whose  service  guards  our  shore 

Lengthen  still  their  glory-roll 

With  his  name  to  lead  the  scroll, 
As  a  flagship  at  her  fore 

Carries  the  Union,  with  its  azure  and  the  stars, 
Symbol  of  times  that  are  no  more 

And  the  old  heroic  wars. 

He  was  the  one 

Whom  Death  had  spared  alone 

Of  all  the  captains  of  that  lusty  age, 
Who  sought  the  foeman  where  he  lay, 
On  sea  or  sheltering  bay, 

Nor  till  the  prize  was  theirs  repressed  their  rage. 
They  are  gone,  —  all  gone  : 

They  rest  with  glory  and  the  undying  Powers  ; 

Only  their  name  and  fame  and  what  they  saved  are  ours ! 

It  was  fifty  years  ago, 

Upon  the  Gallic  Sea, 

He  bore  the  banner  of  the  free, 
And  fought  the  fight  whereof  our  children  know. 

The  deathful,  desperate  fight  !  — 

Under  the  fair  moon's  light 
The  frigate  squared,  and  yawed  to  left  and  right. 

Every  broadside  swept  to  death  a  score  ! 
Roundly  played  her  guns  and  well,  till  their  fiery  en- 
signs fell, 

Neither  foe  replying  more. 


3Q2  OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 

All  in  silence,  when  the  night-breeze  cleared  the  air, 

Old  Ironsides  rested  there, 
Locked  in  between  the  twain,  and  drenched  with  blood. 

Then  homeward,  like  an  eagle  with  her  prey  ! 

O,  it  was  a  gallant  fray, 

That  fight  in  Biscay  Bay  ! 
Fearless  the  Captain  stood,  in  his  youthful  hardihood; 

He  was  the  boldest  of  them  all, 

Our  brave  old  Admiral  ! 

And  still  our  heroes  bleed, 
Taught  by  that  olden  deed. 

Whether  of  iron  or  of  oak 
The  ships  we  marshal  at  our  country's  need, 

Still  speak  their  cannon  now  as  then  they  spoke  ; 
Still  floats  our  unstruck  banner  from  the  mast 

As  in  the  stormy  Past. 

Lay  him  in  the  ground  : 

Let  him  rest  where  the  ancient  river  rolls  ; 
Let  him  sleep  beneath  the  shadow  and  the  sound 

Of  the  bell  whose  proclamation,  as  it  tolls, 
Is  of  Freedom  and  the  gift  our  fathers  gave. 

Lay  him  gently  down  : 

The  clamor  of  the  town 

Will  not  break  the  slumbers  deep,  the  beautiful  ripe 
sleep 

Of  this  lion  of  the  wave, 

Will  not  trouble  the  old  Admiral  in  his  grave. 

Earth  to  earth  his  dust  is  laid. 
Methinks  his  stately  shade 

On  the  shadow  of  a  great  ship  leaves  the  shore  ; 
Over  cloudless  western  seas 


GETTYSBURG.  303 

Seeks  the  far  Hesperides, 

The  islands  of  the  blest, 
Where  no  turbulent  billows  roar,  — 

Where  is  rest. 

His  ghost  upon  the  shadowy  quarter  stands 
Nearing  the  deathless  lands. 

There  all  his  martial  mates,  renewed  and  strong, 

Await  his  coming  long. 

I  see  the  happy  Heroes  rise 

With  gratulation  in  their  eyes  : 
"  Welcome,  old  comrade,"  Lawrence  cries  ; 
"  Ah,  Stewart,  tell  us  of  the  wars  ! 

Who  win  the  glory  and  the  scars  ? 
How  floats  the  skyey  flag,  —  how  many  stars  ? 

Still  speak  they  of  Decatur's  name, 

Of  Bainbridge's  and  Perry's  fame  ? 

Of  me,  who  earliest  came  ? 
Make  ready,  all : 
Room  for  the  Admiral  ! 

Come,  Stewart,  tell  us  of  the  wars  !  " 


GETTYSBURG. 

WAVE,  wave  your  glorious  battle-flags,  brave  sol- 
diers of  the  North, 
And  from  the  field  your  a'rms  have  won    to-day  go 

proudly  forth  ! 
For  now,  O  comrades  dear  and  leal,  —  from  whom  no 

ills  could  part, 

Through  the  long  years  of  hopes  and  fears,  the  nation's 
constant  heart,  — 


304  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Men  who  have  driven  so  oft  the  foe,  so  oft  have  striven 

in  vain, 
Yet  ever   in  the  perilous  hour  have  crossed  his  path 

again,  — 
At  last  we  have  our  hearts'  desire,  from  them  we  met 

have  wrung 
A  victory  that  round  the  world  shall  long  be  told  and 

sung  ! 
It  was  the  memory  of  the  past  that  bore  us  through 

the  fray, 
That  gave  the  grand  old  Army  strength  to  conquer  on 

this  day  ! 

O  now  forget  how  dark  and  red  Virginia's  rivers  flow, 

The  Rappahannock's  tangled  wilds,  the  glory  and  the 
woe  ; 

The  fever-hung  encampments,  where  our  dying  knew 
full  sore 

How  sweet  the  north-wind  to  the  cheek  it  soon  shall 
cool  no  more  ; 

The  fields  we  fought,  and  gained,  and  lost ;  the  low- 
land sun  and  rain 

That  wasted  us,  that  bleached  the  bones  of  our  un- 
buried  slain  ! 

There  was  no  lack  of  foes  to  meet,  of  deaths  to  die  no 
lack, 

And  all  the  hawks  of  heaven  learned  to  follow  on  our 
track ; 

But  henceforth,  hovering  southward,  their  flight  shall 
mark  afar 

The  paths  of  yon  retreating  hosts  that  shun  the  north- 
ern star. 

At  night,  before  the  closing  fray,  when  all  the  front 
was  still, 


GETTYSBURG.  305 

We  lay  in  bivouac  along  the  cannon-crested  hill. 
Ours  was  the  dauntless  Second   Corps ;   and  many  a 

soldier  knew 
How  sped  the  fight,  and  sternly  thought  of  what  was 

yet  to  do. 
Guarding  the   centre  there,  we   lay,  and  talked  with 

bated  breath 

Of  Buford's  stand  beyond  the  town,  of  gallant  Rey- 
nold's death, 
Of  cruel  retreats  through  pent-up  streets  by  murderous 

volleys  swept,  — 
How  well  the  Stone,  the  Iron,  Brigades  their  bloody 

outposts  kept : 
'T  was   for  the   Union,  for  the   Flag,  they  perished, 

heroes  all, 
And  we  swore  to  conquer  in  the  end,  or  even  like  them 

to  fall. 

And  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth  the  tale  of  that  grim 

day  just  done, 
The  fight  by  Round  Top's  craggy  spur,  —  of  all  the 

deadliest  one  ; 
It  saved  the  left :  but  on  the  right  they  pressed  us 

back  too  well, 
And  like  a  field  in  Spring  the  ground  was  ploughed  with 

shot  and  shell. 
There  was  the  ancient  graveyard,  its  hummocks  crushed 

and  red, 
And  there,  between  them,  side  by  side,  the  wounded 

and  the  dead  : 
The  mangled  corpses  fallen  above,  —  the  peaceful  dead 

below, 
Laid  in  their  graves,  to  slumber  here,  a  score  of  years 

ago ; 

T 


306  OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 

It  seemed  their  waking,  wandering  shades  were  asking 

of  our  slain, 
What  brought  such  hideous  tumult  now  where  they  so 

still  had  lain ! 


Bright  rose  the  sun  of  Gettysburg  that  morrow  morn- 
ing-tide, 
And  call  of  trump  and  roll  of  drum  from  height  to 

height  replied. 

Hark  !  from  the  east  already  goes  up  the  rattling  din  ; 
The  Twelfth  Corps,  winning  back  their  ground,  right 

well  the  day  begin  ! 
They  whirl  fierce  Ewell  from  their  front  !     Now  we  of 

the  Second  pray, 
As  right  and   left   the   brunt  have   borne,  the  centre 

might  to-day. 
But  all  was  still  from  hill  to  hill  for  many  a  breathless 

hour, 
While  for  the  coming  battle-shock  Lee  gathered  in  his 

power ; 
And  back  and  forth  our  leaders  rode,  who  knew  not 

rest  or  fear, 
And  along  the   lines,   where'er  they  came,  went  up 

the  ringing  cheer. 

T  was  past  the  hour  of  nooning ;  the  Summer  skies 
were  blue ; 

Behind  the  covering  timber  the  foe  was  hid  from  view; 

So  fair  and  sweet  with  waving  wheat  the  pleasant  val- 
ley lay, 

It  brought  to  mind  our  Northern  homes  and  meadows 
far  away ; 

When  the  whole  western  ridge  at  once  was  fringed 
with  fire  and  smoke  ; 


GETTYSBURG. 


307 


Against  our  lines  from  sevenscore  guns  the  dreadful 
tempest  broke  ! 

Then  loud  our  batteries  answer,  and  far  along  the  crest, 

And  to  and  fro  the  roaring  bolts  are  driven  east  and 
west ; 

Heavy  and  dark  around  us  glooms  the  stifling  sulphur- 
cloud, 

And  the  cries  of  mangled  men  and  horse  go  up  beneath 
its  shroud. 

The   guns  are   still :    the  end  is  nigh  :   we  grasp  our 

arms  anew  ; 
O  now  let   every  heart   be  stanch  and  every  aim  be 

true  ! 
For  look  !  from  yonder  wood  that  skirts  the  valley's 

further  marge, 
The  flower  of  all  the  Southern  host  move  to  the  final 

charge. 

By  Heaven  !  it  is  a  fearful  sight  to  see  their  double  rank 
Come  with  a  hundred  battle-flags,  —  a  mile  from  flank 

to  flank  ! 
Tramping  the  grain  to  earth,  they  come,  ten  thousand 

men  abreast ; 
Their  standards  wave,  —  their  hearts  are  brave,  —  they 

hasten  not,  nor  rest, 
But  close  the  gaps  our  cannon  make,  and  onward  press, 

and  nigher, 
And,  yelling  at  our  very  front,  again  pour  in  their  fire  ! 

Now  burst  our  sheeted  lightnings  forth,  now  all  our 

wrath  has  vent ! 
They   die,  they   wither ;    through   and   through   their 

wavering  lines  are  rent. 
But  these  are  gallant,  desperate  men,  of  our  own  race 

and  land, 


308  OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 

Who  charge  anew,  and  welcome   death,  and  fight  us 

hand  to  hand: 
Vain,  vain  !  give  way,  as  well  ye  may  —  the  crimson 

die  is  cast  ! 
Their  bravest  leaders  bite  the  dust,  their  strength  is 

failing  fast  ; 
They  yield,  they  turn,  they  fly  the  field  :  we  smite  them 

as  they  run  ; 
Their  arms,  their  colors  are  our  spoil ;  the  furious  fight 

is  done  ! 
Across  the  plain  we  follow  far  and  backward  push  the 

fray  : 
Cheer !  cheer  !  the  grand  old  Army  at  last  has  won  the 

day! 

Hurrah  !  the  day  has  won  the  cause  !     No  gray-clad 

host  henceforth 
Shall  come  with  fire  and  sword  to  tread  the  highways 

of  the  North  ! 
'T  was  such  a  flood  as  when  ye  see,  along  the  Atlantic 

shore, 
The   great    Spring-tide    roll   grandly  in  with  swelling 

surge  and  roar  : 

It  seems  no  wall  can  stay  its  leap  or  balk  its  wild  desire 
Beyond  the  bound  that  Heaven  hath  fixed  to  higher 

mount,  and  higher ; 

But  now,  when  whitest  lifts  its  crest,  most  loud  its  bil- 
lows call, 
Touched  by  the  Power  that  led  them  on,  they  fall,  and 

fall,  and  fall. 
Even  thus,  unstayed  upon  his  course,  to  Gettysburg 

the  foe 
His  legions   led,  and  fought,  and  fled,  and   might  no 

further  go. 


GETTYSBURG. 


309 


Full  many  a  dark-eyed  Southern  girl  shall  weep  her 
lover  dead  ; 

But  with  a  price  the  fight  was  ours,  —  we  too  have 
tears  to  shed  !  9 

The  bells  that  peal  our  triumph  forth  anon  shall  toll 
the  brave, 

Above  whose  heads  the  cross  must  stand,  the  hill- 
side grasses  wave  ! 

Alas !  alas  !  the  trampled  grass  shall  thrive  another 
year, 

The  blossoms  on  the  apple-boughs  with  each  new 
Spring  appear, 

But  when  our  patriot-soldiers  fall,  Earth  gives  them  up 
to  God ; 

Though  their  souls  rise  in  clearer  skies,  their  forms 
are  as  the  sod  ; 

Only  their  names  and  deeds  are  ours,  —  but,  for  a  cen- 
tury yet, 

The  dead  who  fell  at  Gettysburg  the  land  shall  not 
forget. 

God  send  us  peace  !  and  where  for  aye  the  loved  and 
lost  recline 

Let  fall,  O  South,  your  leaves  of  palm,  —  O  North, 
your  sprigs  of  pine  ! 

But  when,  with  every  ripened  year,  we  keep  the  har- 
vest-home, 

And  to  the  dear  Thanksgiving-feast  our  sons  and 
daughters  come,  — 

When  children's  children  throng  the  board  in  the  old 
homestead  spread, 

And  the  bent  soldier  of  these  wars  is  seated  at  the  head, 

Long,  long  the  lads  shall  listen  to  hear  the  gray-beard 
tell 


3IO  OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 

Of  those  who   fought  at  Gettysburg  and  stood   their 

ground  so  well : 
"  'T  was  for  the    Union   and  the   Flag,"  the  veteran 

shall  say, 
"Our  grand  old  Army  held  the  ridge,  and  won  that 

glorious  day  !  " 


DARTMOUTH  ODE. 


A 


I. 

PRELUDE. 

WIND  and  a  voice  from  the  North  ! 
A  courier-wind  sent  forth 
From  the  mountains  to  the  sea : 
A  summons  borne  to  me 

From  halls  which  the  Muses  haunt,  from  hills  where 
the  heart  and  the  wind  are  free  ! 

"  Come  from  the  outer  throng  !  " 
(Such  was  the  burden  it  bore,) 
"  Thou  who  hast  gone  before, 
Hither  !   and  sing  us  a  song, 

Far  from  the  round  of  the  town  and  the  sound  of  the 
great  world's  roar  !  " 

O  masterful  voice  of  Youth, 
That  will  have,  like  the  upland  wind,  its  own  wild 

way ! 

O  choral  words,  that  with  every  season  rise 
Like  the  warblings  of  orchard-birds  at  break  of  day  ! 
O  faces,  fresh  with  the  light  of  morning  skies  ! 


DARTMOUTH  ODE.  3!! 

No  marvel  world-worn  toilers  seek  you  here, 
Even  as  they  life  renew,  from  year  to  year, 
In  woods  and  meadows  lit  with  blossoming  May ; 
But  O,  blithe  voices,  that  have  such  sweet  power, 
Unto  your  high  behest  this  summer  hour 
»Vhat  answer  has  the   poet  ?   how  shall  he  frame  his 
lay? 

II. 
THEME. 

"  WHAT  shall  my  song  rehearse  ? "  I  said 
To  a  wise  bard,  whose  hoary  head 
Is  bowed,  like  Kearsarge  crouching  low 
Beneath  a  winter  weight  of  snow, 
But  whose  songs  of  passion,  joy,  or  scorn, 
Within  a  fiery  heart  are  born. 

"  What  can  I  spread,  what  proper  feast 

For  these  young  Magi  of  the  East  ? 

What  wisdom  find,  what  mystic  lore, 

What  chant  they  have  not  heard  before  ? 

Strange  words  of  old  has  every  tongue 

Those  happy  cloistered  hills  among  ; 

For  each  riddle  I  divine 

They  can  answer  me  with  nine  ; 

Their  footsteps  by  the  Muse  are  led, 

Their  lips  on  Plato's  honey  fed  ; 

Their  eyes  have  skill  to  read  the  page 

Of  Theban  bard  or  Attic  sage  ; 
''  For  them  all  Nature's  mysteries,  — 

The  deep-down  secrets  of  the  seas, 

The  cyclone's  whirl,  the  lightning's  shock, 

The  language  of  the  riven  rock  ; 

They  know  the  starry  sisters  seven,  — 


312 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 


What  clouds  the  molten  suns  enfold, 
And  all  the  golden  woof  of  heaven 
Unravelled  in  their  lens  behold  ! 
Gazing  in  a  thousand  eyes, 
So  rapt  and  clear,  so  wonder-wise, 
What  shall  my  language  picture,  then, 
Beyond  their  wont  —  that  has  not  reached  their  ken  ? 

"  What  else  are  poets  used  to  sing, 
Who  sing  of  youth,  than  laurelled  fame  and  love  ? 

But  ah  !  it  needs  no  words  to  move 

Young  hearts  to  some  impassioned  vow, 

To  whom  already  on  the  wing 

The  blind  god  hastens.     Even  now 

Their  pulses  quiver  with  a  thrill 

Than  all  that  wisdom  wiser  still. 
Nor  any  need  to  tell  of  rustling  bays, 
Of  honor  ever  at  the  victor's  hand, 

To  them  who  at  the  portals  stand 
Like  mettled  steeds,  —  each  eager  from  control 
To  leap,  and,  where  the  corso  lies  ablaze, 
Let  out  his  speed  and  soonest  pass  the  goal. 

"  What  is  there  left  ?  what  shall  my  verse 

Within  those  ancient  halls  rehearse  ?  " 
Deep  in  his  heart  my  plaint  the  minstrel  weighed, 

And  a  subtle  answer  made  : 
"  The  world  that  is,  the  ways  of  men, 
Not  yet  are  glassed  within  their  ken. 
Their  foster-mother  holds  them  long,  — 
Long,  long  to  youth,  —  short,  short  to  age,  appear 

The  rounds  of  her  Olympic  Year,  — 
Their  ears  are  quickened  for  the  trumpet-call. 
Sing  to  them  one  true  song, 


DARTMOUTH  ODE. 


313 


Ere  from  the  Happy  Vale  they  turn, 
Of  all  the  Abyssinian  craved  to  learn, 
And  dared  his  fate,  and  scaled  the  mountain-wall 
To   join  the  ranks  without,   and  meet  what    might 
befall." 

III. 

VESTIGIA  RETRORSUM. 

GONE  the  Arcadian  age, 
When,  from  his  hillside  hermitage 
Sent  forth,  the  gentle  scholar  strode 
At  ease  upon  a  royal  road, 

And  found  the  outer  regions  all  they  seem 

In  Youth's  prophetic  dream. 
The  graduate  took  his  station  then 
By  right,  a  ruler  among  men  : 
Courtly  the  three  estates,  and  sure  ; 
The  bar,  the  bench,  the  pulpit,  pure  ; 
No  cosmic  doubts  arose,  to  vex 
The  preacher's  heart,  his  faith  perplex. 
Content  in  ancient  paths  he  trod, 
Nor  searched  beyond  his  Book  for  God. 
Great  virtue  lurked  in  many  a  saw 
And  in  the  doctor's  Latin  lay  ; 

Men  thought,  lived,  died,  in  the  appointed  way. 
Yet  eloquence  was  slave  to  law, 
And  law  to  right :  the  statesman  sought 

A  patriot's  fame,  and  served  his  land,  unbought, 
And  bore  erect  his  front,  and  held  his  oath  in  awe. 


314  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

IV. 
jEREA  PROLES. 

BUT,  now,  far  other  days 
Have  made  less  green  the  poet's  bays,  — 
Have  less  revered  the  band  and  gown, 
.  The  grave  physician's  learned  frown,  — 
Shaken  the  penitential  mind 
That  read  the  text  nor  looked  behind,  — 
Brought  from  his  throne  the  bookman  down, 

Made  hard  the  road  to  station  and  renown  ! 
Now  from  this  seclusion  deep 
The  scholar  wakes,  —  as  one  from  sleep, 
As  one  from  sleep  remote  and  sweet, 
In  some  fragrant  garden-close 
Between  the  lily  and  the  rose, 
Roused  by  the  tramp  of  many  feet, 

Leaps  up  to  find  a  ruthless,  warring  band, 

Dust,  strife,  an  untried  weapon  in  his  hand  ! 
The  time  unto  itself  is  strange, 
Driven-  on  from  change  to  change, 
Neither  of  past  nor  present  sure, 

The  ideal  vanished  nor  the  real  secure. 
Heaven  has  faded  from  the  skies, 

Faith  hides  apart  and  weeps  with  clouded  eyes  ; 

A  noise  of  cries  we  hear,  a  noise  of  creeds, 
While  the  old  heroic  deeds 

Not  of  the  leaders  now  are  told,  as  then, 
But  of  lowly,  common  men. 
See  by  what  paths  the  loud-voiced  gain 
Their  little  heights  above  the  plain  : 
Truth,  honor,  virtue,  cast  away 
For  the  poor  plaudits  of  a  day  ! 
Now  fashion  guides  at  will 


DARTMOUTH  ODE. 


315 


The  artist's  brush,  the  writer's  quill, 

While,  for  a  weary  time  unknown, 

The  reverent  workman  toils  alone, 
Asking  for  bread  and  given  but  a  stone. 

Fettered  with  gold  the  statesman's  tongue ; 

Now,  even  the  church,  among 
New  doubts  and  strange  discoveries,  half  in  vain 

Defends  her  long,  ancestral  reign  ; 

Now,  than  all  others  grown  more  great, 

That  which  was  the  last  estate 

By  turns  reflects  and  rules  the  age,  — 
Laughs,  scolds,  weeps,  counsels,  jeers,  —  a  jester  and  a 
sage ! 

V. 

ENCHANTMENTS. 

HERE,  in  Learning's  shaded  haunt, 

The  battle-fugue  and  mingled  cries  forlorn 
Softened  to  music  seem,  nor  the  clear  spirit  daunt ; 

Here,  in  the  gracious  world  that  looks 

From  earth  and  sky  and  books, 
Easeful  and  sweet  it  seems  all  else  to  scorn 
Than  works  of  noble  use  and  virtue  born  ; 
Brave  hope  and  high  ambition  consecrate 

Our  coming  years  to  something  great. 
But  when  the  man  has  stood, 

Anon,  in  garish  outer  light, 
Feeling  the  first  wild  fever  of  the  blood 

That  places  self  with  self  at  strife 
Whether  to  hoard  or  drain  the  wine  of  life,  — 
When  the  broad  pageant  flares  upon  the  sight, 

And  tuneful  Pleasure  plumes  her  wing 
And  the  crowds  jostle  and  the  mad  bells  ring,  — 


316  OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 

Then  he,  who  sees  the  vain  world  take  slow  heed 

Albeit  of  his  worthiest  and  best, 

And  still,  through  years  of  failure  and  unrest, 

Would  keep  inviolate  his  vow, 
Of  all  his  faith  and  valor  has  sore  need  ! 
Even  then,  I  know,  do  nobly  as  we  will, 
What  we  would  not,  we  do,  and  see  not  how ; 
That  which  we  would,  is  not,  we  know  not  why  ; 
Some  fortune  holds  us  from  our  purpose  still,  — 
Chance  sternly  beats  us  back,  and  turns  our  steps 
awry ! 

VI. 

YOUTH  AND  AGE. 

How  slow,  how  sure,  how  swift, 
The  sands  within  each  glass, 
The  brief,  illusive  moments,  pass  \ 
Half  unawares  we  mark  their  drift 

Till  the  awakened  heart  cries  out,  —  Alas  I 
Alas,  the  fair  occasion  fled, 

The  precious  chance  to  action  all  unwed  ! 

And  murmurs  in  its  depths  the  old  refrain,  — - 

Had  we  but  known   betimes  what  now  we  know  in 
vain  ! 

When  the  veil  from  the  eyes  is  lifted 

The  seer's  head  is  gray ; 
When  the  sailor  to  shore  has  drifted 

The  sirens  are  far  away. 
Why  must  the  clearer  vision, 

The  wisdom  of  Life's  late  hour, 
Come,  as  in  Fate's  derision, 

When  the  hand  has  lost  its  power  ? 


DARTMOUTH  ODE.  3! 

Is  there  a  rarer  being, 

Is  there  a  fairer  sphere 
Where  the  strong  are  not  unseeing, 

And  the  harvests  are  not  sere  ; 
Where,  ere  the  seasons  dwindle 

They  yield  their  due  return  ; 
Where  the  lamps  of  knowledge  kindle 

While  the  flames  of  youth  still  burn  ? 
O  for  the  young  man's  chances  ! 

O  for  the  old  man's  will ! 
Those  flee  while  this  advances, 

And  the  strong  years  cheat  us  still. 

VII. 
WHAT  CHEER? 

Is  there  naught  else  ?  —  you  say, — 

No  braver  prospect  far  away? 

No  gladder  song,  no  ringing  call 

Beyond  the  misty  mountain-wall  ? 

And  were  it  thus  indeed,  I  know 

Your  hearts  would  still  with  courage  glow ; 

I  know  how  yon  historic  stream 

Is  laden  yet,  as  in  the  past, 

With  dreamful  longings  on  it  cast 

By  those  who  saunter  from  the  crown 
Of  this  broad  slope,  their  reverend  Academe,  — 
Who  reach  the  meadowed  banks,  and  lay  them  down 
On  the  green  sward,  and  set  their  faces  south, 

Embarked  in  Fancy's  shallop  there, 
And  with  the  current  seek  the  river's  mouth, 
Finding  the  outer  ocean  grand  and  fair. 

Ay,  like  the  stream's  perpetual  tide, 
Wave  after  wave  each  blithe,  successive  throng 


gig  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Must  join  the  main  and  wander  far  and  wide. 
To  you  the  golden,  vanward  years  belong ! 

Ye  need  not  fear  to  leave  the  shore  : 

Not  seldom  youth  has  shamed  the  sage 

With  riper  wisdom,  —  but  to  age 

Youth,  youth,  returns  no  more  ! 
Be  yours  the  strength  by  will  to  conquer  fate, 
Since  to  the  man  who  sees  his  purpose  clear, 

And  gains  that  knowledge  of  his  sphere 

Within  which  lies  all  happiness,  — 

Without,  all  danger  and  distress,  — 
And  seeks  the  right,  content  to  strive  and  wait, 
To  him  all  good  things  flow,  nor  honor  crowns  him 
late. 

VIII. 


ONE  such  there  was,  that  brother  elder-born 
And  loftiest,  —  from  your  household  torn 

In  the  rathe  spring-time,  ere 
His  steps  could  seek  their  olden  pathways  here. 

Mourn ! 

Mourn,  for  your  Mother  mourns,  of  him  bereft,  — 
Her  strong  one  !  he  is  fallen  : 

But  has  left 

His  works  your  heritage  and  guide, 
Through  East  and  West  his  stalwart  fame  divide. 

Mourn,  for  the  liberal  youth, 
The  undaunted  spirit  whose  quintessence  rare, 

Fanned  by  the  Norseland  air, 
Saw  flaming  in  its  own  white  heat  the  truth 

That  Man,  whate'er  his  ancestry, 
Tanned  by  what  sun  or  exiled  from  what  shore, 
Hears  in  his  soul  the  high  command,  —  Be  Free  ! 


DARTMOUTH  ODE.  3! 9 

For  him  who,  at  the  parting  of  the  ways, 

Disdained  the  flowery  path,  and  gave 
His  succor  to  the  hunted  Afric  slave, 
Whose  cause  he  chose  nor  feared  the  world's  dis- 
praise ; 
Yet  found  anon  the  right  become  the  mightj 

And,  in  the  long  revenge  of  time, 
Lived  to  renown  and  hoary  years  sublime. 

Ye  know  him  now,  your  beacon-light ! 

Ay,  he  was  fronted  like  a  tower,  — 

In  thought  large-moulded,  as  of  frame  ; 

He  that,  in  the  supreme  hour, 
Sat  brooding  at  the  river-heads  of  power 
With  sovereign  strength  for  every  need  that  came ! 

Not  for  that  blameless  one  the  place 
That  opens  wide  to  men  of  lesser  race  ;  — 

Even  as  of  old  the  votes  are  given, 
And  Aristides  is  from  Athens  driven  ; 
But  for  our  statesman,  in  his  grander  trust 

No  less  the  undefiled,  The  Just,  — 
With  poesy  and  learning  lightly  worn, 
And  knees  that  bent  to  Heaven  night  and  morn,  — 
For  him  that  sacred,  unimpassioned  seat, 
Where  right  and  wrong  for  stainless  judgment  meet 
Above  the  greed,  the  strife,  the  party  call.  — 
Henceforth  let  CHASE'S  robes  on   no  base   shoulders 
fall! 

IX. 

ATLANTIS  SURGENS. 

WELL  may  your  hearts  be  valiant,  —  ye  who  stand 

Within  that  glory  from  the  past, 
And  see  how  ripe  the  time,  how  fair  the  land 


320 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 


In  which  your  lot  is  cast ! 
For  us  alone  your  sorrow, 
Ye  children  of  the  morrow,  — 
For  us,  who  struggle  yet,  and  wait, 
Sent  forth  too  early  and  too  late  ! 
But  yours  shall  be  our  tenure  handed  down, 
Conveyed    in    blood,   stamped    with    the    martyr's 

crown ; 

For  which  the  toilers  long  have  wrought, 
And  poets  sung,  and  heroes  fought ; 
The  new  Saturnian  age  is  yours, 
That  juster  season  soon  to  be 
On  the  near  coasts  (whereto  your  vessels  sail 

Beyond  the  darkness  and  the  gale), 
Of  proud  Atlantis  risen  from  the  sea  ! 
You  shall  not  know  the  pain  that  now  endures 
The  surge,  the  smiting  of  the  waves, 

The  overhanging  thunder, 
The  shades  of  night  which  plunge  engulfe'd  under 

Those  yawning  island-caves ; 
But  in  their  stead  for  you  shall  glisten  soon 
The  coral  circlet  and  the  still  lagoon, 

Green  shores  of  freedom,  blest  with  calms, 
And  sunlit  streams  and  meads,  and  shadowy  palms  : 
Such  joys  await  you,  in  our  sorrows'  stead  ; 

Thither  our  charts  have  almost  led  ; 
Nor  in  that  land  shall  worth,  truth,  courage,  ask  for 
alms. 

X. 

VALETE   ET   SALVETE. 

O,  TRAINED  beneath  the  Northern  Star ! 
Worth,  courage,  honor,  these  indeed 


HORACE   GREELEY. 


321 


Your  sustenance  and  birthright  are  ! 
Now,  from  her  sweet  dominion  freed, 
Your  Foster  Mother  bids  you  speed  ; 
Her  gracious  hands  the  gates  unbar, 
Her  richest  gifts  you  bear  away, 
Her  memories  shall  be  your  stay  : 
Go  where  you  will,  her  eyes  your  course  shall  mark 
afar. 

June  25,  1873. 

HORACE   GREELEY. 

T?  ARTH,  let  thy  softest  mantle  rest 
•I—*  On  this  worn  child  to  thee  returning, 
Whose  youth  was  nurtured  at  thy  breast, 

Who  loved  thee  with  such  tender  yearning ! 
He  knew  thy  fields  and  woodland  ways, 

And  deemed  thy  humblest  son  his  brother :  — 
Asleep,  beyond  our  blame  or  praise, 
We  yield  him  back,  O  gentle  Mother  ! 

Of  praise,  of  blame,  he  drank  his  fill : 

Who  has  not  read  the  life-long  story  ? 
And  dear  we  hold  his  fame,  but  still 

The  man  was  dearer  than  his  glory. 
And  now  to  us  are  left  alone 

The  closet  where  his  shadow  lingers, 
The  vacant  chair,  —  that  was  a  throne,  — 

The  pen,  just  fallen  from  his  fingers. 

Wrath  changed  to  kindness  on  that  pen  ; 

Though  dipped  in  gall,  it  flowed  with  honey ; 
One  flash  from  out  the  cloud,  and  then 

The  skies  with  smile  and  jest  were  sunny. 
14*  u 


322  OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 

Of  hate  he  surely  lacked  the  art, 

Who  made  his  enemy  his  lover: 
O  reverend  head  and  Christian  heart ! 

Where  now  their  like  the  round  world  over  ? 

He  saw  the  goodness,  not  the  taint, 

In  many  a  poor,  do-nothing  creature, 
And  gave  to  sinner  and  to  saint, 

But  kept  his  faith  in  human  nature  ; 
Perchance  he  was  not  worldly-wise, 

Yet  we  who  noted,  standing  nearer, 
The  shrewd,  kind  twinkle  in  his  eyes, 

For  every  weakness  held  him  dearer. 

Alas  that  unto  him  who  gave 

So  much,  so  little  should  be  given  ! 
Himself  alone  he  might  not  save 

Of  all  for  whom  his  hands  had  striven. 
Place,  freedom,  fame,  his  work  bestowed  : 

Men  took,  and  passed,  and  left  him  lonely  ;  — 
What  marvel  if,  beneath  his  load, 

At  times  he  craved  —  for  justice  only  ! 

Yet  thanklessness,  the  serpent's  tooth, 

His  lofty  purpose  could  not  alter  ; 
Toil  had  no  power  to  bend  his  youth, 

Or  make  his  lusty  manhood  falter  ; 
From  envy's  sling,  from  slander's  dart, 

That  armored  soul  the  body  shielded, 
Till  one  dark  sorrow  chilled  his  heart, 

And  then  he  bowed  his  head  and  yielded. 

Now,  now,  we  measure  at  its  worth 
The  gracious  presence  gone  forever  ! 


HORACE   GREELEY.  323 

The  wrinkled  East,  that  gave  him  birth, 

Laments  with  every  laboring  river ; 
Wild  moan  the  free  winds  of  the  West 

For  him  who  gathered  to  her  prairies 
The  sons  of  men,  and  made  each  crest 

The  haunt  of  happy  household  fairies  ; 

And  anguish  sits  upon  the  mouth 

Of  her  who  came  to  know  him  latest : 
His  heart  was  ever  thine,  O  South  ! 

He  was  thy  truest  friend,  and  greatest  ! 
He  shunned  thee  in  thy  splendid  shame, 

He  stayed  thee  in  thy  voiceless  sorrow ; 
The  day  thou  shalt  forget  his  name, 

Fair  South,  can  have  no  sadder  morrow. 

The  tears  that  fall  from  eyes  unused,  — 

The  hands  above  his  grave  united,  — 
The  words  of  men  whose  lips  he  loosed, 

Whose  cross  he  bore,  whose  wrongs  he  righted,  — 
Could  he  but  know,  and  rest  with  this  ! 

Yet  stay,  through  Death's  low-lying  hollow, 
His  one  last  foe's  insatiate  hiss 

On  that  benignant  shade  would  follow  ! 

Peace  !  while  we  shroud  this  man  of  men 

Let  no  unhallowed  word  be  spoken  ! 
He  will  not  answer  thee  again, 

His  mouth  is  sealed,  his  wand  is  broken. 
Some  holier  cause,  some  vaster  trust 

Beyond  the  veil,  he  doth  inherit : 
O  gently,  Earth,  receive  his  dust, 

And  Heaven  soothe  his  troubled  spirit ! 

December  j  1873. 


324  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 


KEARNY  AT   SEVEN    PINES. 

SO  that  soldierly  legend  is  still  on  its  journey,  — 
That  story  of  Kearny  who  knew  not  to  yield  ! 
'T  was  the  day  when  with  Jameson,  fierce  Berry,  and 

Birney, 

Against  twenty  thousand  he  rallied  the  field. 
Where  the  red  volleys  poured,  where  the  clamor  rose 

highest, 
Where  the  dead  lay  in  clumps  through  the  dwarf  oak 

and  pine, 
Where  the  aim  from  the  thicket  was  surest  and  nigh- 

est,  — 
No  charge  like  Phil  Kearny's  along  the  whole  line. 

When  the  battle  went  ill,  and  the  bravest  were  solemn, 
Near  the  dark  Seven  Pines,  where  we  still  held  our 

ground, 
He  rode  down  the  length  of  the  withering  column, 

And  his  heart  at  our  war-cry  leapt  up  with  a  bound  ; 
He  snuffed,  like  his  charger,  the  wind  of  the  powder,  — 

His  sword  waved  us  on  and  wr  answered  the  sign : 
Loud  our  cheer  as  we  rushed,  but  his  laugh  rang  the 

louder,     ' 

"There  's  the  devil's  own  fun,  boys,  along  the  whole 
line  !  " 

How  he  strode  his  brown  steed  !    How  we  saw  his  blade 

brighten 
In  the  one  hand  still  left,  —  and  the  reins  in  his 

teeth  ! 

He  laughed  like  a  boy  when  the  holidays  heighten, 
But  a  soldier's  glance  shot  from  his  visor  beneath. 


CUSTER.  325 

Up  came  the  reserves  to  the  mellay  infernal, 
Asking  where  to  go  in,  —  through   the  clearing  or 
pine  ? 

"  O,  anywhere  !    Forward  !   'T  is  all  the  same,  Colonel : 
You  '11  find  lovely  fighting  along  the  whole  line  !  " 

O,  evil  the  black  shroud  of  night  at  Chantilly, 

That  hid  him  from  sight  of  his  brave  men  and  tried  ! 
Foul,  foul  sped  the  bullet  that  clipped  the  white  lily, 

The  flower  of  our  knighthood,  the  whole  army's  pride  ! 
Yet  we  dream  that  he  still,  —  in  that  shadowy  region 

Where  the  dead  form  their  ranks  at  the  wan  drum- 
mer's sign,  — 
Rides  on,  as  of  old,  down  the  length  of  his  legion, 

And  the  word  still  is  Forward  !  along  the  whole  line. 


CUSTER. 

WHAT  !  shall  that  sudden  blade 
Leap  out  no  more  ? 
No  more  thy  hand  be  laid 
Upon  the  sword-hilt,  smiting  sore  ? 

O  for  another  such 
The  charger's  rein  to  clutch,  — 
One  equal  voice  to  summon  victory, 

Sounding  thy  battle-cry, 
Brave  darling  of  the  soldiers'  choice  ! 
Would  there  were  one  more  voice  ! 

O  gallant  charge,  too  bold  ! 
O  fierce,  imperious  greed 
To  pierce  the  clouds  that  in  their  darkness  hold 


326  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Slaughter  of  man  and  steed  ! 

Now,  stark  and  cold, 
Among  thy  fallen  braves  thou  liest, 
And  even  with  thy  blood  defiest 

The  wolfish  foe  : 
But  ah.  thou  liest  low, 
And  all  our  birthday  song  is  hushed  indeed  ! 

Young  lion  of  the  plain, 

Thou  of  the  tawny  mane  ! 
Hotly  the  soldiers'  hearts  shall  beat, 

Their  mouths  thy  death  repeat, 
Their  vengeance  seek  the  trail  again 

Where  thy  red  doomsmen  be  ; 
But  on  the  charge  no  more  shall  stream 
Thy  hair,  —  no  more  thy  sabre  gleam,  — 

No  more  ring  out  thy  battle-shout, 
Thy  cry  of  victory  ! 

Not  when  a  hero  falls 

The  sound  a  world  appalls  : 

For  while  we  plant  his  cross 
There  is  a  glory,  even  in  the  loss : 

But  when  some  craven  heart 

From  honor  dares  to  part, 
Then,  then,  the  groan,  the  blanching  cheek, 

And  men  in  whispers  speak, 
Nor  kith  nor  country  dare  reclaim 

From  the  black  depths  his  name. 

Thou,  wild  young  warrior,  rest, 
By  all  the  prairie  winds  caressed  1 
Swift  was  thy  dying  pang; 
Even  as  the  war-cry  rang 


THE   COMEDIAN'S  LAST  NIGHT.         $2? 

Thy  deathless  spirit  mounted  high 
And  sought  Columbia's  sky  :  — 
There,  to  the  northward  far, 

Shines  a  new  star, 
And  from  it  blazes  down 
The  light  of  thy  renown  ! 

July  10,  1876. 


THE   COMEDIAN'S    LAST    NIGHT. 

NOT  yet !     No,  no,  —  you  would  not  quote 
That  meanest  of  the  critic's  gags  ? 
'T  was  surely  not  of  me  they  wrote 

Those  words,  too  late  the  -veteran  lags  ; 
'T  is  not  so  very  late  with  me  ; 

I  'm  not  so  old  as  that,  you  know, 
Though  work  and  trouble  —  as  you  see  — 

(Not  years)  have  brought  me  somewhat  low. 
I  failed,  you  say  ?     No,  no,  not  yet  ! 

Or,  if  I  did,  — with  such  a  past, 
Where  is  the  man  would  have  me  quit 

Without  one  triumph  at  the  last  ? 

But  one  night  more,  —  a  little  thing 

To  you,  —  I  swear  't  is  all  I  ask  ! 
Once  more  to  make  the  wide  house  ring, — 

To  tread  the  boards,  to  wear  the  mask, 
To  move  the  coldest  as  of  yore, 

To  make  them  laugh,  to  make  them  cry, 
To  be  —  to  be  myself  once  more, 

And  then,  if  must  be,  let  me  die  ! 


328  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

The  prompter's  bell !     I  'm  here,  you  see  : 
By  Heaven,  friends,  you  '11  break  my  heart ! 

Nat  Gosling ' s  called:  let  be,  let  be,  — 
None  but  myself  shall  act  the  part  ! 


Yes,  thank  you,  boy,  I  '11  take  your  chair 

One  moment,  while  I  catch  my  breath. 
D'  ye  hear  the  noise  they  're  making  there  ? 

'T  would  warm  a  player's  heart  in  death. 
How  say  you  now  ?     Whate'er  they  write, 

We  've  put  that  bitter  gibe  to  shame  ; 
I  knew,  I  knew  there  burned  to-night 

Within  my  soul  the  olden  flame  ! 
Stand  off  a  bit :  that  final  round,  — 

I  'd  hear  it  ere  it  dies  away 
The  last,  last  time  !  —  there  's  no  more  sound 

So  end  the  player  and  the  play. 

The  house  is  cleared.     My  senses  swim  ; 

I  shall  be  better,  though,  anon,  — 
One  stumbles  when  the  lights  are  dim,  — 

'T  is  growing  late  :  we  must  be  gone. 
Well,  braver  luck  than  mine,  old  friends  ! 

A  little  work  and  fame  are  ours 
While  Heaven  health  and  fortune  lends, 

And  then  —  the  coffin  and  the  flowers  ! 
These  scattered  garments  ?  let  them  lie  : 

Some  fresher  actor  (I  'm  not  vain) 
Will  dress  anew  the  part ;  —  but  I  — 

I  shall  not  put  them  on  again. 

November  17,  1875. 


THE  MONUMENT  OF  ORE E LEY.         329 


THE   MONUMENT    OF   GREELEY. 

READ  AT  THE   UNVEILING   OF  THE  BUST  SURMOUNTING  THE 
PRINTERS'    MONUMENT  TO   HORACE   GREELEY,  GREEN- 
WOOD CEMETERY,    DECEMBER  4,    1876. 

ONCE  more,  dear  mother  Earth,  we  stand 
la  reverence  where  thy  bounty  gave 
Our  brother,  yielded  to  thy  hand, 

The  sweet  protection  of  the  grave  ! 
Well  hast  thou  soothed  him  through  the  years, 

The  years  our  love  and  sorrow  number,  — 
And  witlvthy  smiles,  and  with  thy  tears, 
Made  green  and  fair  his  place  of  slumber. 

Thine  be  the  keeping  of  that  trust ; 

And  ours  this  image,  born  of  Art 
To  shine  above  his  hidden  dust, 

What  time  the  sunrise  breezes  part 
The  trees,  and  with  new  light  enwreathe 

Yon  head,  —  until  the  lips  are  golden, 
And  from  them  music  seems  to  breathe 

As  from  the  desert  statue  olden. 

Would  it  were  so !  that  now  we  might 

Hear  once  his  uttered  voice  again, 
Or  hold  him  present  to  our  sight, 

Nor  reach  with  empty  hands  and  vain  ! 
O  that,  from  some  far  place,  were  heard 

One  cadence  of  his  speech  returning,  — 
A  whispered  tone,  a  single  word, 

Sent  back  in  answer  to  our  yearning  ! 


33O  OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 

It  may  not  be  ?     What  then  the  spark, 

The  essence  which  illumed  the  whole 
And  made  his  living  form  its  mark 

And  outward  likeness  ?     What  the  soul 
That  warmed  the  heart  and  poised  the  head, 

And  spoke  the  thoughts  we  now  inherit  ? 
Bright  force  of  fire  and  ether  bred,  — 

Where  art  thou  now,  elusive  Spirit  ? 

Where,  now,  the  sunburst  of  a  love 

Which  blended  still  with  sudden  wrath 
To  nerve  the  righteous  hand  that  strove, 

And  blaze  in  the  oppressor's  path  ? 
Fair  Earth,  our  dust  is  thine  indeed  ! 

Too  soon  he  reached  the  voiceless  portal, 
That  whither  leads  ?     Where  lies  the  mead 

He  gained,  and  knew  himself  immortal  ? 

Or,  tell  us,  on  what  distant  star, 

Where  even  as  here  are  toil  and  wrong, 
With  strength  renewed  he  lifts  afar 

A  voice  of  aid,  a  war-cry  strong  ? 
What  fruit,  this  stern  Olympiad  past, 

Has  that  rich  nature  elsewhere  yielded, 
What  conquest  gained  and  knowledge  vast, 

What  kindred  beings  loved  and  shielded  ! 

Why  seek  to  know  ?  he  little  sought, 

Himself,  to  lift  the  close-drawn  veil, 
Nor  for  his  own  salvation  wrought 

And  pleaded,  ay,  and  wore  his  mail ; 
No  selfish  grasp  of  life,  no  fear, 

Won  for  mankind  his  ceaseless  caring, 
But  for  themselves  he  held  them  dear, — 

Their  birth  and  shrouded  exit  sharing. 


THE  MONUMENT  OF  G  REE  LEY.          331 

Not  his  the  feverish  will  to  live 

A  sunnier  life,  a  longer  space, 
Save  that  the  Eternal  Law  might  give 

The  boon  in  common  to  his  race. 
Earth,  't  was  thy  heaven  he  loved,  and  best 

Thy  precious  offspring,  man  and  woman, 
And  labor  for  them  seemed  but  rest 

To  him,  whose  nature  was  so  human. 

Even  here  his  spirit  haply  longed 

To  stay,  remembered  by  our  kind, 
And  where  the  haunts  of  men  are  thronged 

Move  yet  among  them.     Seek  and  find 
A  presence,  though  his  voice  has  ceased, 

Still,  even  where  we  dwell,  remaining, 
With  all  its  tenderest  thrills  increased 

And  all  it  cared  to  ask  obtaining. 

List,  how  the  varied  things  that  took 

The  impress  of  his  passion  rare 
Make  answer  !     To  the  roadways  look, 

The  watered  vales,  the  hamlets  fair. 
He  walks  unseen  the  living  woods, 

The  fields,  the  town,  the  shaded  borough, 
And  in  the  pastoral  solitudes 

Delights  to  view  the  lengthening  furrow. 

The  faithful  East  that  cradled  him, 

Still,  while  she  deems  her  nursling  sleeps, 
Sits  by  his  couch  with  vision  dim  ; 

The  plenteous  West  his  feast-day  keeps  ; 
The  wistful  South  recalls  the  ways 

Of  one  who  in  his  love  enwound  her, 
And  stayed  her,  in  the  evil  days, 

With  arms  of  comfort  thrown  around  her. 


332  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

He  lives  wherever  men  to  men 

In  perilous  hours  his  words  repeat, 
Where  clangs  the  forge,  where  glides  the  pen, 

Where  toil  and  traffic  crowd  the  street ; 
And  in  whatever  time  or  place 

Earth's  purest  souls  their  purpose  strengthen, 
Down  the  broad  pathway  of  his  race 

The  shadow  of  his  name  shall  lengthen. 

"  Still  with  us  !  "  all  the  liegemen  cry 

Who  read  his  heart  and  held  him  dear  ; 
The  hills  declare  "  He  shall  not  die  !  " 

The  prairies  answer  "  He  is  here  !  " 
Immortal  thus,  no  dread  of  fate 

Be  ours,  no  vain  memento  mori  ; 
Life,  Life,  not  Death,  we  celebrate,  — 

A  lasting  presence  touched  with  glory. 

The  star  may  vanish,  —  but  a  ray, 

Sent  forth,  what  mandate  can  recall  ? 
The  circling  wave  still  keeps  its  way 

That  marked  a  turret's  seaward  fall  ; 
The  least  of  music's  uttered  strains 

Is  part  of  Nature's  voice  forever  ; 
And  aye  beyond  the  grave  remains 

The  great,  the  good  man's  high  endeavor ! 

Well  may  the  brooding  Earth  retake 

The  form  we  knew,  to  be  a  part 
Of  bloom  and  herbage,  fern  and  brake, 

New  lives  that  from  her  being  start. 
Naught  of  the  soul  shall  there  remain  : 

They  came  on  void  and  darkness  solely 
Who  the  veiled  Spirit  sought  in  vain 

Within  the  temple's  shrine  Most  Holy. 


THE  MONUMENT  OF  GREEzEY.          333 

That,  that,  has  found  again  the  source 

From  which  itself  to  us  was  lent : 
The  Power  that,  in  perpetual  course, 

Makes  of  the  dust  an  instrument 
Supreme  ;  the  universal  Soul ; 

The  current  infinite  and  single 
Wherein,  as  ages  onward  roll, 

Life,  Thought,  and  Will  forever  mingle. 

What  more  is  left,  to  keep  our  hold 

On  him  who  was  so  true  and  strong  ? 
This  semblance,  raised  above  the  mould 

With  offerings  of  word  and  song, 
That  men  may  teach,  in  aftertime, 

Their  sons  how  goodness  marked  the  features 
Of  one  whose  life  was  made  sublime 

By  service  for  his  brother  creatures. 

And  last,  and  lordliest,  his  fame, — 

A  station  in  the  sacred  line 
Of  heroes  that  have  left  a  name 

We  conjure  with, —  a  place  divine, 
Since,  in  the  world's  eternal  plan, 

Divinity  itself  is  given, 
To  him  who  lives  or  dies  for  Man 

And  looks  within  his  soul  for  Heaven. 


334  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 


NEWS   FROM   OLYMPIA.1 

OLYMPIA  ?    Yes,  strange  tidings  from  the  city 
Which  pious  mortals  builded,  stone  by  stone, 
For  those  old  gods  of  Hellas,  half  in  pity 

Of  their  storm-mantled  height  and  dwelling  lone,  — 
Their  seat  upon  the  mountain  overhanging 

Where  Zeus  withdrew  behind  the  rolling  cloud, 
Where  crowned  Apollo  sang,  the  phorminx  twanging, 
And  at  Poseidon's  word  the  forests  bowed. 

Ay,  but  that  fated  day 

When  from  the  plain  Olympia  passed  away ; 
When  ceased  the  oracles,  and  long  unwept 
Amid  their  fanes  the  gods  deserted  fell, 
While  sacerdotal  ages,  as  they  slept, 

The  ruin  covered  well ! 

The  pale  Jew  flung  his  cross,  thus  one  has  written, 

Among  them  as  they  sat  at  the  high  feast, 
And  saw  the  gods,  before  that  token  smitten, 

Fade  slowly,  while  His  presence  still  increased, 
Until  the  seas  Ionian  and  yEgaean 

Gave  out  a  cry  that  Pan  himself  was  dead, 
And  all  was  still :  thenceforth  no  more  the  paean, 

No  more  by  men  the  prayer  to  Zeus  was  said. 

Sank,  like  a  falling  star, 
Hephaistos  in  the  Lemnian  waters  far ; 

1  "  One  after  the  other  the  figures  described  by  Pausanias  are  dragged 
from  the  earth.  Nike  has  been  found ;  the  head  of  Kladeos  is  there  ;  Myr- 
tilos  is  announced,  and  Zeus  will  soon  emerge.  This  is  earnest  of  what  may 
follow."  — Despatch  to  the  London  Times. 


NEWS  FROM  OLYMPIA.  335 

The  silvery  Huntress  fled  the  darkened  sky  ; 
Dim  grew  Athene's  helm,  Apollo's  crown  ; 
Alpheios'  nymphs  stood  wan  and  trembling  by 
When  Hera's  fane  went  down. 

News  !  what  news  ?     Has  it  in  truth  then  ended, 

The  term  appointed  for  that  wondrous  sleep  ? 
Has  Earth  so  well  her  fairest  brood  defended 

Within  her  bosom  ?     Was  their  slumber  deep 
Not  this  our  dreamless  rest  that  knows  no  waking, 

But  that  to  which  the  years  are  as  a  day  ? 
What !  are  they  coming  back,  their  prison  breaking,  — 

These  gods  of  Homer's  chant,  of  Pindar's  lay  ? 

Are  they  coming  back  in  might, 
Olympia's  gods,  to  claim  their  ancient  right  ? 
Shall  then  the  sacred  majesty  of  old, 
The  grace  that  holy  was,  the  noble  rage, 
Temper  our  strife,  abate  our  greed  for  gold, 

Make  fine  the  modern  age  ? 

Yes,  they  are  coming  back,  to  light  returning  ! 

Bold  are  the  hearts  and  void  of  fear  the  hands 
That  toil,  the  lords  of  War  and  Spoil  unurning, 

Or  of  their  sisters  fair  that  break  the  bands ; 
That  loose  the  sovran  mistress  of  desire, 

Queen  Aphrodite,  to  possess  the  earth 
Once  more  ;  that  dare  renew  dread  Hera's  ire, 

And  rouse  old  Pan  to  wantonness  of  mirth. 

The  herald  Nike",  first, 

From  the  dim  resting-place  unfettered  burst, 
Winged  victor  over  fate  and  time  and  death  ! 
Zeus  follows  next,  and  all  his  children  then  ; 


336  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Phoibos  awakes  and  draws  a  joyous  breath, 
"And  Love  returns  to  men. 


Ah,  let  them  come,  the  glorious  Immortals, 

Rulers  no  more,  but  with  mankind  to  dwell, 
The  dear  companions  of  our  hearts  and  portals, 

Voiceless,  unworshipped,  yet  beloved  right  well ! 
Pallas  shall  sit  enthroned  in  wisdom's  station, 

Eros  and  Psyche  be  forever  wed, 
And  still  the  primal  loveliest  creation 

Yield  new  delight  from  ancient  beauty  bred. 

Triumphant  as  of  old, 

Changeless  while  Art  and  Song  their  warrant  hold, 
The  visions  of  our  childhood  haunt  us  still, 
Still  Hellas  sways  us  with  her  charm  supreme. 
The  morn  is  past,  but  Man  has  not  the  will 

To  banish  yet  the  dream. 


LE  JOUR   DU   ROSSIGNOL. 

""P  WAS  the  season  of  feasts,  when  the  blithe  birds 
•*-      had  met 

In  their  easternmost  arbor,  an  innocent  throng, 

And  they  made  the  glad  birthday  of  each  gladder  yet, 

With  the  daintiest  cheer  and  the  rarest  of  song. 

What  brave  tirra-lirras  !     But  clear  amid  all, 
At  each  festival  held  in  the  favorite  haunt, 

The  nightingale's  music  would  quaver  and  fall, 
And  surest  and  sweetest  of  all  was  his  chant. 


LE  JOUR  DU  ROSSIGNOL.  337 

At  last  came  the  nightingale's  fete,  and  they  sought 
To  make  it  the  blithefullest  tryst  of  the  year, 

Since  this  was  the  songster  that  oftenest  caught 
The  moment's  quick  rapture,  the  joy  that  is  near. 

But,  alas  !  half  in  vain  the  fine  chorus  they  made  ; 

Fresh-plumed  and   all  fluttering,  and  uttering  their 

best, 
For  silent  among  them,  so  etiquette  bade, 

To  the  notes  of  his  praisers  sat  listening  the  guest. 

Quel  dommage !     Must  a  failure,  like  theirs,  be  our 

feast  ? 

Must  our  chorister's  voice  at  his  o'wn  fete  be  still  ? 
While  he  thinks  :  "  You  are  kind.     May  your  tribe  be 

increased ; 
But  at  this  I  can  give  you  such  odds  if  I  will ! " 

What  avail,  fellow-minstrels,  our  crotchets  and  staves, 
Though  your  tribute,  like  mine,  rises  straight  from 
the  heart, 

Unless  while  the  bough  on  his  laurel-bush  waves, 
To  his  own  sangerfest  the  one  guest  lends  his  art  ? 

Whose  swift  wit  like  his,  with  which  none  dares  to  vie, 
Whose  carol  so  instant,  so  joyous  and  true  ? 

Sound  it  cheerly,  dear  HOLMES,  for  the  sun  is  still  high, 
And  we  're  glad,  as  he  halts,  to  be  out- sung  by  you. 
IS 


338  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 


MERIDIAN. 

AN    OLD-FASHIONED    POEM. 

THE  TWENTY-FIFTH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  YALE  CLASS 
OF    1853. 

Inque  brevi  spatio  mutantur  szcla  animantum 
Et  quasi  cursores  vitai  lampada  tradunt. 

LUCRETIUS,  De  Rer.  Nat.,  Lib.  ii. 


THE  tryst  is  kept.     How  fares  it  with  each  one 
At  this  mid  hour,  when  mariners  take  the  sun 
And  cast  their  reckoning  ?  when  some  level  height 
Is  reached  by  men  who  set  their  strength  aright,— 
Who  for  a  little  space  the  firm  plateau 
Tread  sure  and  steadfast,  yet  who  needs  must  know 
Full  soon  begins  the  inevitable  slide 
Down  westward  slopings  of  the  steep  divide. 

How  stands  it,  comrades,  at  this  noontide  fleet, 
When  for  an  hour  we  gather  to  the  meet  ? 
Like  huntsmen,  rallied  by  the  winding  horn, 
Who  seek  the  shade  with  trophies  lightly  borne, 
Remembering  their  deeds  of  derring-do  — 
What  bows  were  bent,  what  arrows  speeded  true. 
All,  all  have  striven,  and  far  apart  have  strayed  : 
Fling  down  !  fill  up  the  can  !  wipe  off  the  blade  ! 
Ring  out  the  song  !  nor  care,  in  this  our  mood, 
What  hollow  echo  mocks  us  from  the  wood  ! 


-~     Or  is  it  with  us,  haply,  as  with  those 

Each  man  of  whom  the  morn's  long  combat  knows  ? 


MERIDIAN.  339 

All  veterans  now  :  the  bugle's  far  recall 

From  the  hot  strife  has  sounded  sweet  to  all. 

Welcome  the  rendezvous  beneath  the  elms, 

The  truce,  the  throwing  down  of  swords  and  helms  ! 

Life  is  a  battle  !     How  these  sayings  trite 

Which  school-boys  write  —  and  know  not  what  they 

write  — 

In  after  years  begin  to  burn  and  glow  ! 
What  man  is  here  that  has  not  found  it  so  ? 
Who  here  is  not  a  soldier  of  the  wars, 
Has  not  his  half-healed  wound,  his  early  scars, — 
Has  broken  not  his  sword,  or  from  the  field 
Borne  often  naught  but  honor  and  his  shield  ? 
Ah,  ye  recruits,  with  flags  and  arms  unstained, 
See  by  what  toil  and  moil  the  heights  are  gained  ! 
Learn  of  our  skirmish  lost,  our  ridges  won, 
The  dust,  the  thirst  beneath  the  scorching  sun ; 
Then  see  us  closer  draw  —  by  fate  bereft 
Of  men  we  loved  —  the  firm-set  column  left. 


To  me  the  picture  that  some  painter  drew 

Makes  answer  for  our  past.     His  throng  pursue 

A  siren,  one  that  ever  smiles  before, 

Almost  in  reach,  alluring  more  and  more. 

Old,  young,  with  outstretched  hand,  with  eager  eye, 

Fast  follow  where  her  winged  sandals  fly, 

While  by  some  witchery  unto  each  she  seems 

His  dearest  hope,  the  spirit  of  his  dreams. 

Ah,  me  !  how  like  those  dupes  of  Pleasure's  chase, 

Yet  how  unlike,  we  left  our  starting-place  ! 

Is  there  not  something  nobler,  far  more  true, 

In  the  Ideal,  still  before  our  view, 


34O  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Upon  whose  shining  course  we  followed  far 

While  sank  and  rose  the  night  and  morning  star  ? 

Ever  we  saw  a  bright  glance  cast  behind 

Or  heard  a  word  of  hope  borne  down  the  wind,  — 

As  yet  we  see  and  hear,  and  follow  still 

With  faithful  hearts  and  long-enduring  will. 

In  what  weird  circle  has  the  enchantress  led 
Our  footsteps,  so  that  now  again  they  tread 
These  walks,  and  all  that  on  the  course  befell 
Seems  to  ourselves  a  shadow  and  a  spell  ? 
Was  it  the  magic  of  a  moment's  trance, 
A  scholar's  day-dream  ?     Have  we  been,  perchance, 
Like  that  bewildered  king  who  dipped  his  face 
In  water  —  while  a  dervish  paused  to  trace 
A  mystic  phrase  — and,  ere  he  raised  it,  lived 
A  score  of  seasons,  labored,  journeyed,  wived 
In  a  strange  city,  —  Tunis  or  Algiers,  — 
And,  after  what  had  seemed  so  many  years, 
Came  to  himself,  and  found  all  this  had  been 
During  the  palace-clock's  brief  noonday  din  ? 

For  here  the  same  blithe  robins  seem  to  house 
In  the  elm-forest,  underneath  whose  boughs 
We  too  were  sheltered  ;  nay,  we  cannot  mark 
The  five-and-twenty  rings,  beneath  the  bark, 
That  tell  the  growth  of  some  historic  tree, 
Since  we,  too,  were  a  part  of  Arcady. 
And  in  our  trance,  negari,  should  the  bell 
Speak  out  the  hour,  non  fiotest  quin,  't  were  well 
The  upper  or  the  lower  room  to  seek 
For  Tully's  Latin,  Homer's  rhythmic  Greek  ;  — 
Yet  were  it  well  ?  a}',  brothers,  if,  alack, 
For  this  one  day  the  shadow  might  go  back! 


MERIDIAN.  341 

Ah,  no  !  with  doubtful  faces  each  on  each 
We  look,  we  speak  with  altered,  graver  speech : 
The  spell  is  gone  !     We  know  what  't  is  to  wake 
From  an  illusive  dream,  at  morning's. break, 
That  we  again  are  dark-haired,  buoyant,  young,  — 
Scanning,  once  more,  our  spring-time  mates  among, 
The  grand  hexameter  —  that  anthem  free 
Of  the  pursuing,  loud-resounding  sea,  — 
To  wake,  anon,  and  know  another  day 
Already  speeds  for  one  whose  hairs  are  gray, — 
In  this  swift  change  to  lose  a  third  of  life 
Lopped  by  the  stroke  of  Memory's  ruthless  knife, 
And  feel,  though  naught  go  ill,  it  is  a  pain 
That  youth,  lost  youth,  can  never  come  again  ! 

Were  the  dream  real,  or  should  we  idly  go 
To  yonder  halls  and  strive  to  make  it  so, 
There  listening  to  the  voices  that  rehearse, 
Like  ours  of  old,  the  swift  Ionic  verse, 
What  silvery  speech  could  now  for  us  restore 
The  cadence  that  we  thought  to  hear  once  more  ? 
The  low,  calm  utterance  of  him  who  first 
*Our  faltering  minds  to  clearer  knowledge  nursed, — 
The  perfect  teacher,  who  endured  our  raw 
Harsh  bleatings  with  a  pang  we  never  saw  ; 
Whose  bearing  was  so  apt  we  scarcely  knew, 
At  first,  the  wit  that  lit  him  through  and  through, 
Strength's  surplusage  :  nor,  after  many  a  day 
Had  taught  us,  rated  well  the  heart  that  lay 
Beneath  his  speech,  nor  guessed  how  brave  a  soul 
In  that  frail  body  dwelt  with  fine  control : 
Alas,  no  longer  dwells  !     Time's  largest  theft 
Was  that  which  learning  and  the  world  bereft 
Of  this  pure  scholar,  —  one  who  had  been  great 
In  every  walk  where  led  by-  choice  or  fate, 


342  OCCASIONAL   POEMS. 

Were  not  his  delicate  yearnings  still  represt 
Obeying  duty's  every-day  behest. 
He  shrank  from  note,  yet  might  have  worn  at  ease 
The  garb  whose  counterfeit  a  sad  world  sees 
Round  many  a  dolt  who  gains,  and  deems  it  fame, 
One  tenth  the  honor  due  to  HADLEY'S  name. 

Too  soon  the  years,  gray  Time's  relentless  breed, 

Have  claimed  our  Pascal.     He  is  theirs    indeed  ; 

Yet  three  remain  of  the  ancestral  mould, 

Abreast,  like  them  who  kept  the  bridge  of  old  : 

The  true,  large-hearted  man  so  many  found 

A  helpful  guardian,  stalwart,  sane,  and  sound  ; 

And  he,  by  sure  selection  upward  led, 

Whom  now  we  reverence  as  becomes  the  Head,  — 

The  sweet  polemic,  pointing  shafts  divine 

With  kindly  satire,-  —  latest  of  the   line 

That  dates  from  godly  Pierson.     No  less  dear, 

And  more  revered  with  each  unruffled  year, 

That  other  Grecian  :  he  who  stands  aside 

Watching  the  streams  that  gather  and  divide. 

Alcestis'  love,  the  Titan's  deathless  will, 

We  read  of  in  his  text,  and  drank  our  fill 

At  Plato's  spring.     Now,  from  his  sacred  shade, 

Still  on  the  outer  world  his  hand  is  laid 

In  use  and  counsel.     Whom  the  nation  saw 

Most  fit  for  Heaven  could  best  expound  Earth's  law. 

His  wise,  kind  eyes  behold  —  nor  are  they  loth  — 
The  larger  scope,  the  quarter-century's  growth  ; 
How  blooms  the  Mother  with  unwrinkled  brow. 
To  whom  her  wandering  sons,  returning  now, 
Come  not  alone,  but  bring  their  sons  to  prove 
That  children's  children  have  a  share  of  love. 


MERIDIAN.  343 

Through  them  she  proffers  us  a  second  chance ; 
With  their  young  eyes  we  see  her  hands  advance 
To  crown  the  sports  once  banished  from  her  sight ; 
With  them  we  see  old  wrong  become  the  right, 
Tread  pleasant  halls,  a  healthy  life  behold 
Less  stinted  than  the  cloister-range  of  old  — 
When  the  last  hour  of  morning  sleep  was  lost 
And  prayer  was  sanctified  by  dusk  and  frost, 
And  hungry  tutors  taught  a  class  unfed 
That  a  full  stomach  meant  an  empty  head. 
For  them  a  tenth  Muse,  Beauty,  here  and  there 
Has  touched  the  landmarks,  making  all  more  fair  ;  — 
We  knew  her  not,  save  in  our  stolen  dreams 
Or  stumbling  song,  but  now  her  likeness  gleams 
Through  chapel  aisles,  and  in  the  house  where  Art 
Has  builded  for  her  praise  its  shrines  apart. 

Now  the  new  Knowledge,  risen  like  a  sun, 
Makes  bright  for  them  the  hidden  ways  that  none 
Revealed  to  us  ;  or  haply  would  dethrone 
The  gods  of  old,  and  rule  these  hearts  alone 
From  yonder  stronghold.     By  unnumbered  strings 
She  draws  our  sons  to  her  discoverings,  — 
Traces  the  secret  paths  of  force,  the  heat 
That  makes  the  stout  heart  give  its  patient  beat, 
Follows  the  stars  through  aeons  far  and  free 
And  shows  what  forms  have  been  and  are  to  be. 

Such  things  are  plain  to  these  we  hither  brought, 
More  strange  and  varied  than  ourselves  were  taught; 
But  has  the  iris  of  the  murmuring  shell 
A  charm  the  less  because  we  know  full  well 
Sweet  Nature's  trick  ?     Is  Music's  dying  fall 
Less  finely  blent  with  strains  antiphonal 


344  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Because  within  a  harp's  quick  vibratings 

We  count  the  tremor  of  the  spirit's  wings  ? 

There  is  a  path  by  Science  yet  untrod 

Where  with  closed  eyes  we  walk  to  find  out  God  ! 

Still,  still,  the  unattained  ideal  lures, 

The  spell  evades,  the  splendor  yet  endures  ; 

False  sang  the  poet,  —  there  is  no  good  in  rest, 

And  Truth  still  leads  us  to  a  deeper  quest. 


But  Alma  Mater,  with  her  mother-eyes 
Seeing  us  graver  grown  if  not  more  wise,  — 
She  calls  us  back,  dear  comrades  —  ah,  how  dear, 
And  dearer  than  when  each  to  each  was  near  ! 
Time  thickens  blood  !     Enough  to  know  that  one 
Our  classmate  was  and  is,  and. is  her  son  ;  — 
She  looks  unto  the  East,  the  South,  the  West, 
Asking,  "  Now  who  have  kept  my  maxims  best  ? 
Who  have  most  nearly  held  within  their  grasp 
The  fluttering  robe  that  each  essayed  to  clasp  ?  " 
Can  ye  not  answer,  brothers,  even  as  I, 
That  still  in  front  the  vision  seems  to  fly,  — 
More  light  and  fleet  her  shining  footsteps  burn, 
And  speed  the  most  when  most  she  seems  to  turn  ? 
And  some  have  fallen,  fallen  from  our  band 
Just  as  we  thought  to  see  them  lay  the  hand 
Upon  her  scarf  :  we  know  their  precious  names, 
Their  hearts,  their   work,  their   sorrows,    and  their 

fames. 

Few  gifts  the  brief  years  brought  them,  yet  how  few 
Fell  to  the  living  as  the  lots  we  drew  ! 
But  some,  who  most  were  baffled,  later  found 
Capricious  Fortune's  arms  a  moment  wound 
About  them ;  some,  who  sought  her  on  one  side, 
Beheld  her  reach  them  by  a  compass  wide. 


MERIDIAN.  345 

What  then  is  Life  ?  or  what  Success  may  be 
Who,  who  can  tell  ?  who  for  another  see  ? 
From  those,  perchance,  that  closest  seem  to  hold 
Her  love,  her  strength,  her  laurels,  or  her  gold, 
In  this  meridian  hour  she  far  has  sped 
And  left  them  but  her  phantom  mask  instead. 

A  grave,  sweet  poet  in  a  song  has  told 

Of  one,,  a  king,  who  in  his  palace  old 

Hung  up  a  bell ;  and  placed  its  cord  anear 

His  couch,  —  that  thenceforth,  when  the  court  should 

hear 

Its  music,  all  might  know  the  king  had  rung 
With  his  own  hand,  and  that  its  silver  tongue 
Gave  out  the  words  of  joy  he  wished  to  say, 
"  I  have  been  wholly  happy  on  this  day  !  " 
Joy's  full  perfection  never  to  him  came  ; 
Voiceless  the  bell,  year  after  year  the  same, 
Till,  in  his  death-throes,  round  the  cord  his  hand 
Gathered  —  and  there  was  mourning  in  the  land. 

I  pray  you,  search  the  wistful  past,  and  tell 

Which  of  you  all  could  ring  the  happy  bell ! 

The  treasure-trove,  the  gifts  we  ask  of  Fate, 

Come  far  apart,  come  mildewed,  come  too  late. 

What  says  the  legend  ?     "  All  that  man  desires 

Greatly  at  morn  he  gains  ere  day  expires  ;  " 

But  Age  craves  not  the  fruits  that  gladden  Youth, — 

It  sits  among  its  vineyards,  full  of  ruth, 

Finding  the  owner's  right  to  what  is  best 

Of  little  worth  without  the  seeker's  zest. 

Yet  something  has  been  gained.     Not  all  a  waste 
The  light-winged  years  have  vanished  in  their  haste, 


346  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Howbeit  their  gift  was  scant  of  what  we  thought, 
So  much  we  thought  not  of  they  slowly  wrought ! 
Not  all  a  waste  the  insight  and  the  zeal 
We  gathered  here  :  these  surely  make  for  weal  ; 
The  current  sets  for  him  who  swims  upbuoyed 
By  the  trained  skill,  with  all  his  arts  employed. 
Coy  Fortune  may  disdain  our  noblest  cares, 
The  good  she  gives  at  last  comes  unawares  :  — 
Long,  long  in  vain,  —  with  patience,  worth,  and  love,  - 
To  do  her  task  the  enchanted  princess  strove, 
Till  in  the  midnight  pitying  fairies  crept 
Unraveling  the  tangle  while  she  slept. 

This,  then,  the  boon  our  Age  of  Wisdom  brings,  — 

A  knowledge  of  the  real  worth  of  things  : 

How  poor,  how  good,  is  wealth  ;  how  surely  fame 

And  beauty  must  return  to  whence  they  came, 

Yet  not  for  this  less  beautiful  and  rare  — 

It  is  their  evanescence  makes  them  fair 

And  worth  possession.     Ours  the  age  still  strong 

With  passions,  that  demand  not  curb  nor  thong  ; 

And  ours  the  age  not  old  enough  to  set 

Youth's  joys  above  their  proper  worth,  nor  yet 

So  young  as  still  to  trust  its  empery  more 

Than  unseen  hands  which  lead  to  fortune's  door. 

For  most  have  done  the  best  they  could,  and  all 

The  reign  of  law  has  compassed  like  a  wall ; 

Something  accrued  to  each,  and  each  has  seen 

A  Power  that  works  for  good  in  life's  demesne. 

In  our  own  time,  to  many  a  masquerade 

The  hour  has  come  when  masks  aside  were  laid  : 

We  Ve  seen  the  shams  die  out,  the  poor  pretense 

Cut  off  at  last  by  truth's  keen  instruments, 

The  ignoble  fashion  wane  and  pass  away,  — 


MERIDIAN.  347 

The  fine  return  a  second  time,  to  stay,  — 
The  knave,  the  quack,  and  all  the  meaner  brood, 
Go  surely  down,  by  the  strong  years  subdued, 
And,  in  the  quarter-century's  capping-race, 
Strength,  talent,  honor,  take  and  hold  their  place. 

More  glad,  you  say,  the  song  I  might  have  sung 
In  the  free,  careless  days  when  all  were  young! 
Now,  long  deferred,  the  sullen  stroke  of  time 
Has  given  a  graver  key,  a  deeper  chime, 
That  the  late  singer  of  this  strain  might  prove 
Himself  less  keen  for  honors,  more  for  love, 
And  in  the  music  of  your  answer  find 
The  charms  that  life  to  further  action  bind. 
The  Past  is  past ;  survey  its  course  no  more ; 
Henceforth  our  glasses  sweep  the  further  shore. 
Five  lustra,  briefer  than  those  gone,  remain, 
And  then  —  a  white-haired  few  shall  meet  again, 
Lifting  their  heads  that  long  have  learned  to  droop, 
And  hear  some  sweeter  minstrel  of  our  group. 
But  stay !  which  one  of  us,  alone,  shall  dine 
At  the  Last  Shadowy  Banquet  of  the  line  ? 
Who  knows  ?  who  does  not  in  his  heart  reply 
"  It  matters  not,  so  that  it  be  not  I." 


TRANSLATIONS. 


THE  DEATH   OF   AGAMEMNON. 


TRANSLATIONS. 

I.    THE   DEATH   OF   AGAMEMNON. 

FROM   HOMER. 
[Odyssey,  XI.,  385-456-] 
ODYSSEUS   IN   HADES. 

A  FTERWARD,   soon    as    the   chaste    Persephone 
•**•     hither  and  thither  385 

Now  had  scattered  afar  the   slender  shades    of   the 

women, 

Came  the  sorrowing  ghost  of  Agamemnon  Atreides ; 
Round  whom  thronged,  besides,  the  souls  of  the  others 

who  also 
Died,  and  met  their  fate,  with  him  in  the  house  of  Ai- 

gisthos. 
He,  then,  after  he  drank  of  the  dark  blood,  instantly 

knew  me,  —  3go 

Ay,  and  he  wailed  aloud,  and  plenteous  tears  was  shed- 
ding, 
Toward   me   reaching    hands   and   eagerly  longing  to 

touch  me  ; 
But  he  was  shorn  of  strength,  nor  longer  came  at  his 

bidding 


352 


TRANSLA  TIONS. 


That  great  force  which  once  abode  in  his  pliant  mem- 
bers. 
Seeing  him  thus,  I  wept,  and  my  heart  was  laden  with 

pity.  395 

And,  uplifting  my  voice,  in  winge'd  words  I  addressed 

him : 
"  King  of  men,  Agamemnon,  thou  glorious  son  of 

Atreus, 

Say,  in  what  wise  did  the  doom  of  prostrate  death  over- 
come thee  ? 

Was  it  within  thy  ships  thou  wast  subdued  by  Poseidon 
Rousing  the  dreadful  blast  of   winds  too   hard   to  be 
mastered,  4<x> 

Or  on  the  firm-set  land  did  banded  foemen  destroy  thee 
Cutting  their  oxen  off,  and  their  flocks  so  fair,  or,  it 

may  be, 

While  in  a  town's  defence,  or  in  that  of  women,  con- 
tending ? " 

Thus  I  spake,  and  he,  replying,  said  to  me  straight- 
way : 

"  Nobly-born  and  wise  Odysseus,  son  of  Laertes,        405 
Neither  within  my  ships  was  I  subdued  by  Poseidon 
Rousing  the  dreadful  blast  of  winds  too  hard  to  be  mas- 
tered, 
Nor  on  the  firm-set  land  did  banded  foemen  destroy 

me,  — 
Nay,  but  death  and  my  doom  were  well  contrived  by 

Aigisthos, 

Who,  with  my  curse*d  wife,  at  his  own  house  bidding  me 

welcome,  4i0 

Fed  me,  and  slew  me,  as  one  might  slay  an  ox  at  the 

manger  ! 

So,  by  a  death  most  wretched,  I  died  ;   and  all  my  com- 
panions 


THE  DEATH  OF  AGAMEMNON.  353 

Round  me  were  slain  off- hand,  like  white-toothed  swine 
that  are  slaughtered 

Thus,  when  some  lordly  man,  abounding  in  power  and 
riches, 

Orders  a  wedding  -  feast,  or  a  frolic,  or  mighty  ca- 
rousal. 4,5 

Thou  indeed  hast  witnessed  the  slaughter  of  number- 
less heroes 

Massacred,  one  by  one,  in  the  battle's  heat ;  but  with 
pity 

All  thy  heart  had  been  full,  if  thou  hadst  seen  what  I 
tell  thee,  — 

How  in  the  hall  we  lay  among  the  wine-jars,  and 
under 

Tables  laden  with  food  ;  and  how  the  pavement,  on  all 
sides,  420 

Swam  with  blood  !  And  I  heard  the  dolorous  cry  of 
Kassandra, 

Priam's  daughter,  whom  treacherous  Klytaimnestra 
anear  me 

Slew ;  and  upon  the  ground  I  fell  in  my  death-throes, 
vainly 

Reaching  out  hands  to  my  sword,  while  the  shameless 
woman  departed, 

Nor  did  she  even  stay  to  press  her  hands  on  my  eye- 
lids, 425 

No,  nor  to  close  my  mouth,  although  I  was  passing  to 
Hades. 

O,  there  is  naught  more  dire,  more  insolent  than  a 
woman 

After  the  very  thought  of  deeds  like  these  has  pos- 
sessed her,  — 

One  who  would  dare  to  devise  an  act  so  utterly  shame- 
less, 


354  TRANSLATIONS. 

Lying  in  wait  to  slay  her  wedded  lord.      I  bethought 
me,  43o 

Verily,  home  to  my  children  and  servants  giving  me 
welcome 

Safe  to  return  ;  but  she  has  wrought  for  herself  con- 
fusion , 

Plotting  these  grievous  woes,  and  for  other  women  here- 
after, 

Even  for  those,  in  sooth,  whose  thoughts  are  set  upon 

goodness." 

Thus  he  spake,  and  I,  in  turn  replying,  addressed 
him :  43s 

"  Heavens  !  how  from  the  first  has  Zeus  the  thunderer 
hated, 

All  for  the  women's  wiles,  the  brood  of  Atreus  !     What 
numbers 

Perished  in  quest  of  Helen,  —  and  Klytaimnestra,  the 
meanwhile, 

Wrought  in  her  soul  this  guile   for  thee  afar  on   thy 

journey." 

Thus  I  spake,  and  he,  replying,  said  to  me  straight- 
way :  440 

"  See  that  thou  art  not,  then,  like  me  too  mild  to  thy 
helpmeet ; 

Nor  to  her  ear  reveal  each  secret  matter  thou  knowest, 

Tell  her  the  part,  forsooth,  and  see  that  the  rest  shall 
be  hidden. 

Nathless,  not  unto  thee  will  come  such  murder,  Odys- 
seus, 

Dealt  by  a  wife  ;  for  wise  indeed,  and  true  in  her  pur- 
pose, 445 

Noble  Penelope  is,  the  child  of  Ikarios.     Truly, 

She  it  was  whom  we  left,  a  fair  young  bride,  when  we 
started 


THE  DEATH  OF  AGAMEMNON.  355 

Off  for  the  wars  ;  and  then  an  infant  lay  at  her  bosom, 

One  who  now,  methinks,  in  the  list  of  men  must  be 
seated,  — 

Blest  indeed  !  ah,  yes,  for  his  well  -  loved  father,  re- 
turning, 450 

Him  shall  behold,  and  the  son  shall  clasp  the  sire,  as  is 
fitting. 

Not  unto  me  to  feast  my  eyes  with  the  sight  of  my  off- 
spring 

Granted  the  wife  of  my  bosom,  but  first  of  life  she  be- 
reft me. 

Therefore  I  say,  moreover,  and  charge  thee  well  to 
remember, 

Unto  thine  own  dear  land  steer  thou  thy  vessel  in 
secret,  4S5 

Not  in  the  light ;  since  faith  can  be  placed  in  woman 
no  longer." 


II.    THE   DEATH   OF   AGAMEMNON. 

FROM   AISCHYLOS. 
I. 

[AISCHYLOS,  Agamemnon,  I266-I3I8.1] 
CHORUS  —  KASSANDRA  —  AGAMEMNON. 

CHORUS. 

O   WRETCHED  woman  indeed,  and  O  most  wise, 
Much  hast  thou  said  ;  but  if  thou  knowest  well 
Thy  doom,  why,  like  a  heifer,  by  the  Gods 
Led  to  the  altar,  tread  so  brave  of  soul  ? 

1  Text  of  Paley. 


356  TRANS  LA  TIONS. 

KASSANDRA. 

There's  no  escape,  O  friends,  the  time  is  full. 

CHORUS. 

Nathless,  the  last  to  enter  gains  in  time. 

KASSANDRA. 

The  day  has  come  ;  little  I  make  by  flight. 

CHORUS. 
Thou  art  bold  indeed,  and  of  a  daring  spirit ! 

KASSANDRA. 

Such  sayings  from  the  happy  none  hath  heard. 

CHORUS. 

Grandly  to  die  is  still  a  grace  to  mortals. 

KASSANDRA. 

Alas,  my  sire,  —  thee  and  thy  noble  brood  ! 

{She  starts  back  from  the  entrance.) 
CHORUS. 

How  now  ?    What  horror  turns  thee  back  again  ? 

KASSANDRA. 

Faugh  !  faugh  ! 

CHORUS. 

Why  such  a  cry  ?    There  's  something  chills  thy  soul ! 

KASSANDRA. 

The  halls  breathe  murder,  —  ay,  they  drip  with  blood. 

CHORUS. 

How  ?     'T  is  the  smell  of  victims  at  the  hearth. 


THE  DEATH  OF  AGAMEMNON.  357 

KASSANDRA. 

Nay,  but  the  exhalation  of  the  tomb  ! 

CHORUS. 

No  Syrian  dainty,  this,  of  which  thou  speakest. 

KASSANDRA  (at  the  portal). 
Yet  will  I  in  the  palace  wail  my  own 
And  Agamemnon's  fate  !     Enough  of  life  ! 
Alas,  O  friends ! 

Yet  not  for  naught  I  quail,  not  as  a  bird 
Snared  in  the  bush  :  bear  witness,  though  I  die, 
A  woman's  slaughter  shall  requite  my  own, 
And,  for  this  man  ill-yoked,  a  man  shall  fall  ! 
Thus  prays  of  you  a  stranger,  at  death's  door. 

CHORUS. 

Lost  one,  I  rue  with  thee  thy  foretold  doom  ! 

KASSANDRA. 

Once  more  I  fain  would  utter  words,  once  more,  — 
'T  is  my  own  threne  !     And  I  invoke  the  Sun, 
By  his  last  beam,  that  my  detested  foes 
May  pay  no  less  to  them  who  shall  avenge  me, 
Than  I  who  die  an  unresisting  slave  ! 

(She  enters  the  palace.) 


Of  Fortune  was  never  yet  enow 

To  mortal  man  ;  and  no  one  ever 

Her  presence  from  his  house  would  sever 

And  point,  and  say,  "  Come  no  more  nigh  ! : 

Unto  our  King  granted  the  Gods  on  high 


358  TRANSLATIONS. 

That  Priam's  towers  should  bow, 
And  homeward,  crowned  of  Heaven,  hath  he  come  ; 
But  now  if,  for  the  ancestral  blood  that  lay 
At  his  doors,  he  falls,  —  and  the  dead,  that  cursed  his 
home, 

He,  dying,  must  in  full  requite,  — 
What  manner  of  man  is  one  that  would  not  pray 

To  be  born  with  a  good  attendant  Sprite  ? 

(A  n  outcry  within  the  palace- ) 
AGAMEMNON. 

Woe  's  me  !     I  am  stricken  a  deadly  blow  within  ! 

CHORUS. 

Hark  !     Who   is  't  crie.s  "  a  blow  "  ?    Who  meets  his 
death  ? 

AGAMEMNON. 

Woe  's  me  !  again  !  a  second  time  I  am  stricken  ! 

CHORUS. 

The  deed,  methinks,  from  the  King's  cry,  is  done. 
Quick,  let  us  see  what  help  may  be  in  counsel ! 


2. 

[Agamemnon,  1343-1 377.] 
Enter  KLYTAIMNESTRA,  from  the  Palace. 

KLYTAIMNESTRA. 

Now,  all  this  formal  outcry  having  vent, 
I  shall  not  blush  to  speak  the  opposite. 
How  should  one,  plotting  evil  things  for  foes, 


THE  DEATH  OF  AGAMEMNON.  359 

Encompass  seeming  friends  with  such  a  bane 

Of  toils  ?  it  were  a  height  too  great  to  leap  ? 

Not  without  full  prevision  came,  though  late, 

To  me  this  crisis  of  an  ancient  feud. 

And  here,  the  deed  being  done,  I  stand —  even  where 

I  smote  him  !  nor  deny  that  thus  I  did  it, 

So  that  he  could  not  flee  nor  ward  off  doom. 

A  seamless  net,  as  round  a  fish,  I  cast 

About  him,  yea,  a  deadly  wealth  of  robe  ; 

Then  smote  him  twice ;  and  with  a  double  cry 

He  loosed  his  limbs  ;  and  to  him  fallen  I  gave 

Yet  a  third  thrust,  a  grace  to  Hades,  lord 

Of  the  underworld  and  guardian  of  the  dead. 

So,  falling,  out  he  gasps  his  soul,  and  out 

He  spurts  a  sudden  jet  of  bloodj  that  smites 

Me  with  a  sable  rain  of  gory  dew,  — 

Me,  then  no  less  exulting  than  the  field 

In  the  sky's  gift,  while  bursts  the  pregnant  ear! 

Things  being  thus,  old  men  of  Argos,  joy, 

If  joy  ye  can  ;  —  I  glory  in  the  deed  ! 

And  if  't  were  seemly  ever  yet  to  pour 

Libation  to  the  dead,  't  were  most  so  now ; 

Most  meet  that  one,  who  poured  for  his  own  home 

A  cup  of  ills,  returning,  thus  should  drain  it ! 

CHORUS. 

Shame  on  thy  tongue  !  how  bold  of  mouth  thou  art 
That  vauntest  such  a  speech  above  thy  husband  ! 

KLYTAIMNESTRA.  . 

Ye  try  me  as  a  woman  loose  of  soul  ; 
But  I  with  dauntless  heart  avow  to  you 
Well  knowing  —  and  whether  ye  choose  to  praise  or 
blame 


360  TRANSLA  TIONS. 

I  care  not  —  this  is  Agamemnon  ;  yea, 

My  husband  ;  yea,  a  corpse,  of  this  right  hand, 

This  craftsman  sure,  the  handiwork  !     Thus  stands 


3- 

\Agamemnon,  1466-1507.] 

CHORUS  —  SEMI-CHORUS  —  KLYTAIMNESTRA. 

CHORUS. 

Woe  !     Woe  ! 
King  !     O  how  shall  I  weep  for  thy  dying  ? 

What  shall  my  fond  heart  say  anew  ? 
Thou  in  the  web  of  the  spider  art  lying, 

Breathing  out  life  by  a  death  she  shall  rue. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Alas  !  alas  for  this  slavish  couch  !     By  a  sword 

Two-edged,  by  a  hand  untrue, 
Thou  art  smitten,  even  to  death,  my  lord  ! 

KLYTAIMNESTRA. 

Thou  sayest  this  deed  was  mine  alone ; 

But  I  bid  thee  call  me  not 
The  wife  of  Agamemnon's  bed  ; 
'T  was  the  ancient  fell  Alastor1  of  Atreus'  throne, 

The  lord  of  a  horrid  feast,  this  crime  begot, 
Taking  the  shape  that  seemed  the  wife  of  the  dead,  — 

His  sure  revenge,  I  wot, 
A  victim  ripe  hath  claimed  for  the  young  that  bled. 

1  The  Evil  Genius,  the  Avenger. 


THE  DEATH  OF  AGAMEMNON.  361 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Who  shall  bear  witness  now,  — 
Who  of  this  murder,  now,  thee  guiltless  hold  ? 

How  sayest  thou  ?     How  ? 
Yet  the  fell  Alastor  may  have  holpen,  I  trow : 
Still  is  dark  Ares  driven 
Down  currents  manifold 

Of  kindred  blood,  wherever  judgment  is  given, 
And  he  comes  to  avenge  the  children  slain  of  old, 
And  their  thick  gore  cries  to  Heaven  ! 

CHORUS. 

Woe  !     Woe  ! 
King  !     O  how  shall  I  weep  for  thy  dying  ? 

What  shall  my  fond  heart  say  anew  ? 
Thou  in  the  web  of  the  spider  art  lying, 

Breathing  out  life  by  a  death  she  shall  rue  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Alas  !  alas  for  this  slavish  couch  !     By  a  sword 

Two-edged,  by  a  hand  untrue, 
Thou  art  smitten,  even  to  death,  my  lord  \ 

KLYTAIMNESTRA. 

Hath  he  not  subtle  Ate  brought 

Himself,  to  his  kingly  halls  ? 
'T  was  on  our  own  dear  offspring,  —  yea, 
On  Iphigeneia,  wept  for  still,  he  wrought 
The  doom  that  cried  for  the  doom  by  which  he  falls. 
O,  let  him  not  in  Hades  boast,  I  say, 

For  't  is  the  sword  that  calls, 
Even  for  that  foul  deed,  his  soul  away ! 
16 


LATER    POEMS. 


LATER     POEMS. 

THE    SONGSTER. 

A   MIDSUMMER   CAROL. 


WITHIN  our  summer  hermitage 
I  have  an  aviary,  — 
'T  is  but  a  little,  rustic  cage, 
That  holds  a  golden-winged  Canary,  — 
A  bird  with  no  companion  of  his  kind. 
But  when  the  warm  south-wind 
Blows,. from  rathe  meadows,  over 
The  honey-scented  clover, 
I  hang  him  in  the  porch,  that  he  may  hear 
The  voices  of  the  bobolink  and  thrush, 

The  robin's  joyous  gush, 
The  bluebird's  warble,  and  the  tunes  of  all 
Glad  matin  songsters  in  the  fields  anear. 

Then,  as  the  blithe  responses  vary, 


366 


LATER  POEMS. 

And  rise  anew,  and  fall, 

In  every  hush 
He  answers  them  again, 
With  his  own  wild,  reliant  strain, 
As  if  he  breathed  the  air  of  sweet  Canary. 


Bird,  bird  of  the  golden  wing, 
Thou  lithe,  melodious  thing  ! 

Where  hast  thy  music  found  ? 
What  fantasies  of  vale  and  vine, 
Of  glades  where  orchids  intertwine, 
Of  palm-trees,  garlanded  and  crowned, 
And  forests  flooded  deep  with  sound,  — 
What  high  imagining 
Hath  made  this  carol  thine  ? 
By  what  instinct  art  thou  bound 
To  all  rare  harmonies  that  be 
In  those  green  islands  of  the  sea, 
Where  thy  radiant,  wildwood  kin 
Their  madrigals  at  morn  begin, 
Above  the  rainbow  and  the  roar 
Of  the  long  billow  from  the  Afric  shore  ? 

Asking  other  guerdon 
None,  than  Heaven's  light, 

Holding  thy  crested  head  aright, 
Thy  melody's  sweet  burden 
Thou  dost  proudly  utter, 

With  many  an  ecstatic  flutter 

And  ruffle  of  thy  tawny  throat 
For  each  delicious  note. 

—  Art  thou  a  waif  from  Paradise, 


THE  SONGSTER. 

In  some  fine  moment  wrought 
By  an  artist  of  the  skies, 

Thou  winged,  cherubic  Thought  ? 

Bird  of  the  amber  beak, 
Bird  of  the  golden  wing  ! 

Thy  dower  is  thy  carolling ; 

Thou  hast  not  far  to  seek 
Thy  bread,  nor  needest  wine 

To  make  thine  utterance  divine  ; 

Thou  art  canopied  and  clothed 
And  unto  Song  betrothed  ! 

In  thy  lone  aerial  cage 

Thou  hast  thine  ancient  heritage  ; 

There  is  no  task-work  on  thee  laid 
But  to  rehearse  the  ditties  thou  hast  made  ; 
Thou  hast  a  lordly  store, 

And,  though  thou  scatterest  them  free, 
Art  richer  than  before, 
Holding  in  fee 

The  glad  domain  of  minstrelsy. 


Brave  songster,  bold  Canary  ! 
Thou  art  not  of  thy  listeners  wary, 
Art  not  timorous,  nor  chary 
Of  quaver,  trill,  and  tone, 
Each  perfect  and  thine  own  ; 
But  renewest,  shrill  or  soft, 
Thy  greeting  to  the  upper  skies, 
Chanting  thy  latest  song  aloft 
With  no  tremor  or  disguise. 
Thine  is  a  music  that  defies 


367 


368  LATER   POEMS. 

The  envious  rival  near  ; 
Thou  hast  no  fear 
Of  the  day's  vogue,  the  scornful  critic's  sneer. 

Would,  O  wisest  bard,  that  now 

I  could  cheerly  sing  as  thou  ! 
Would  I  might  chant  the  thoughts  which  on  me  throng 

For  the  very  joy  of  song  ! 

Here,  on  the  written  page, 

I  falter,  yearning  to  impart 
The  vague  and  wandering  murmur  of  my  heart, 

Haply  a  little  to  assuage 

This  human  restlessness  and  pain, 
And  half  forget  my  chain  : 

Thou,  unconscious  of  thy  cage, 

Showerest  music  everywhere  ; 

Thou  hast  no  care 
But  to  pour  out  the  largesse  thou  hast  won 

From  the  south -wind  and  the  sun  ; 

There  are  no  prison-bars 
Betwixt  thy  tricksy  spirit  and  the  stars. 

When  from  its  delicate  clay 
Thy  little  life  shall  pass  away, 
Thou  wilt  not  meanly  die, 
Nor  voiceless  yield  to  silence  and  decay  ; 
But  triumph  still  in  art 
And  act  thy  minstrel-part, 
Lifting  a  last,  long  paean 
To  the  unventured  empyrean. 
—  So  bid  the  world  go  by, 
And  they  who  list  to  thee  aright, 
Seeing  thee  fold  thy  wings  and  fall,  shall  say  : 
"  The  Songster  perished  of  his  own  delight  !  " 


CRABBED  AGE  AND    YOUTH. 


CRABBED   AGE   AND   YOUTH. 

OUT,  out,  Old  Age  !  aroint  ye  ! 
I  fain  would  disappoint  ye, 
Nor  wrinkled  grow  and  learned 
Before  I  am  inurned. 
Ruthless  the  Hours  and  hoary, 
That  scatter  ills  before  ye  ! 
Thy  touch  is  pestilential, 
Thy  lays  are  penitential ; 
With  stealthy  steps  thou  stealest 
And  life's  hot  tide  congealest ; 
Before  thee  vainly  flying 
We  are  already  dying. 
Why  must  the  blood  grow  colder, 
And  men  and  maidens  older  ? 
Bring  not  thy  maledictions, 
Thy  grewsome,  grim  afflictions,  — 
Thy  bodings  bring  not  hither 
To  make  us  blight  and  wither. 
When  this  thy  frost  hath  bound  us, 
All  fairer  things  around  us 
Seem  Youth's  divine  extortion 
In  which  we  have  ho  portion. 
"  Fie,  Senex  !  "  saith  a  lass  now, 
"  What  need  ye  of  a  glass  now  ? 
Though  flowers  of  May  be  springing 
And  I  my  songs  am  singing, 
Thy  blood  no  whit  the  faster 
Doth  flow,  my  ancient  Master!" 
Age  is  by  Youth  delighted, 
Youth  is  by  Age  affrighted  ; 


369 


LATER  POEMS. 

Blithe  sunny  May  and  joysome 
Still  finds  December  noisome. 
Alack !  a  guest  unbidden, 
Howe'er  our  feast  be  hidden, 
Doth  enter  with  the  feaster 
And  make  a  Lent  of  Easter  ! 
I  would  thou  vvert  not  able 
To  seat  thee  at  our  table  ; 
I  would  that  altogether 
From  this  thy  wintry  weather, 
Since  Youth  and  Love  must  leave  us, 
Death  might  at  once  retrieve  us. 
Old  wizard,  ill  betide  ye  ! 
I  cannot  yet  abide  ye  ! 

Ah,  Youth,  sweet  Youth,  I  love  ye  ! 
There  's  naught  on  Earth  above  ye  ! 
Thou  purling  bird  uncaged 
That  never  wilt  grow  aged, 
To  whom  each  day  is  giving 
Increase  of  joyous  living  ! 
Soft  words  to  thee  are  spoken, 
For  thee  strong  vows  are  broken, 
All  loves  and  lovers  cluster, 
To  bask  them  in  thy  lustre. 
Ah,  girlhood,  pout  and  dimple, 
Half  hid  beneath  the  wimple  ! 
Ah,  boyhood,  blithe  and  cruel, 
Whose  heat  doth  need  no  fuel, 
No  help  of  wine  and  spices 
And  frigid  Eld's  devices  ! 
All  pleasant  things  ye  find  you, 
And  to  your  sweet  selves  bind  you. 
For  you  alone  the  motion 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC. 

Of  brave  ships  on  the  ocean  ; 

All  stars  for  you  are  shining, 

All  wreaths  your  foreheads  twining  ; 

All  joys,  your  joys  decreeing, 

Are  portions  of  your  being, — 

All  fairest  sights  your  features, 

Ye  selfish,  soulful  creatures  ! 

Sing  me  no  more  distiches 

Of  glory,  wisdom,  riches  ; 

Tell  me  no  beldame's  story 

Of  wisdom,  wealth,  and  glory  ! 

To  Youth  these  are  a  wonder,  — 

To  Age  a  corpse-light  under 

The  tomb  with  rusted  portal 

Of  that  which  seemed  immortal. 

I,  too,  in  Youth's  dear  fetter, 

Will  love  my  foeman  better,  — 

Ay,  though  his  ill  I  study,  — 

So  he  be  young  and  ruddy, 

Than  comrade  true  and  golden, 

So  he  be  waxen  olden. 

Ah,  winsome  Youth,  stay  by  us  ! 

I  prithee,  do  not  fly  us  ! 

Ah,  Youth,  sweet  Youth,  I  love  ye  ! 

There  's  naught  on  Earth  above  ye  ! 


STANZAS   FOR  MUSIC. 
(FROM  AN  UNFINISHED  DRAMA.) 

*  I  ""HOU  art  mine,  thou  hast  given  thy  word 
•*•     Close,  close  in  my  arms  thou  art  clinging 

Alone  for  my  ear  thou  art  singing 
A  song  which  no  stranger  hath  heard  : 


371 


372 


LATER  POEMS. 

But  afar  from  me  yet,  like  a  bird, 
Thy  soul,  in  some  region  unstirred, 
On  its  mystical  circuit  is  winging. 

Thou  art  mine,  I  have  made  thee  mine  own  ; 
Henceforth  we  are  mingled  forever  : 
But  in  vain,  all  in  vain,  I  endeavor  — 

Though  round  thee  my  garlands  are  thrown, 

And  thou  yieldest  thy  lips  and  thy  zone  — 

To  master  the  spell  that  alone 
My  hold  on  thy  being  can  sever. 

Thou  art  mine,  thou  hast  come  unto  me  ! 
But  thy  soul,  when  I  strive  to  be  near  it  — 
The  innermost  fold  of  thy  spirit  — 
Is  as  far  from  my  grasp,  is  as  free, 
As  the  stars  from  the  mountain-tops  be, 
As  the  pearl,  in  the  depths  of  the  sea, 

From  the  portionless  king  that  would  wear  it. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  BIRDS. 


W1 


•HITHER  away,  Robin, 

Whither  away  ? 
Is  it  through  envy  of  the  maple-leaf, 
Whose  blushes  mock  the  crimson  of  thy  breast, 

Thou  wilt  not  stay  ? 

The  summer  days  were  long,  yet  all  too  brief 
The  happy  season  thou  hast  been  our  guest : 
Whither  away  ? 


'  The  blast  is  chill,  yet  in  the  upper  sky 
Thou  still  canst  find  the  color  of  thy  wing 


Page  373. 


HYP  ATI  A. 


373 


Whither  away,  Bluebird, 

Whither  away  ? 

The  blast  is  chill,  yet  in  the  upper  sky 
Thou  still  canst  find  the  color  of  thy  wing, 

The  hue  of  May. 

Warbler,  why  speed  thy  southern  flight  ?  ah,  why, 
Thou  too,  whose  song  first  told  us  of  the  Spring  ? 
Whither  away  ? 

Whither  away,  Swallow, 

Whither  away  ? 
Canst  thou  no  longer  tarry  in  the  North, 

Here,  where  our  roof  so  well  hath  screened  thy  nest  ? 

Not  one  short  day  ? 

Wilt  thou  —  as  if  thou  human  wert  —  go  forth 
And  wanton  far  from  them  who  love  thee  best  ? 
Whither  away  ? 


HYPATIA. 

Jr~p  IS  fifteen  hundred  years,  you  say, 

*-     Since  that  fair  teacher  died 
In  learndd  Alexandria 

By  the  stone  altar's  side  :  — 
The  wild  monks  slew  her,  as  she  lay 

At  the  feet  of  the  Crucified. 

Yet  in  a  prairie-town,  one  night, 

I  found  her  lecture-hall, 
Where  bench  and  dais  stood  aright, 

And  statues  graced  the  wall, 
And  pendent  brazen  lamps  the  light 

Of  classic  days  let  fall. 


374  LATER  POEMS. 

A  throng  that  watched  the  speaker's  face, 

And  on  her  accents  hung, 
Was  gathered  there :  the  strength,  the  grace 

Of  lands  where  life  is  young 
Ceased  not,  I  saw,  with  that  blithe  race 

From  old  Pelasgia  sprung.  0 

No  civic  crown  the  sibyl  wore, 

Nor  academic  tire, 
But  shining  skirts,  that  trailed  the  floor 

And  made  her  stature  higher  ; 
A  written  scroll  the  lecturn  bore, 

And  flowers  bloomed  anigh  her. 

The  wealth  her  honeyed  speech  had  won 

Adorned  her  in  our  sight ; 
The  silkworm  for  her  sake  had  spun 

His  cincture,  day  and  night ; 
With  broider-work  and  Honiton 

Her  open  sleeves  were  bright. 

But  still  Hypatia's  self  I  knew, 
And  saw,  with  dreamy  wonder, 

The  form  of  her  whom  Cyril  slew 
(See  Kingsley's  novel,  yonder) 

Some  fifteen  centuries  since,  't  is  true, 
And  half  a  world  asunder. 

Her  hair  was  coifed  Athenian-wise, 
With  one  loose  tress  down-flowing ; 

Apollo's  rapture  lit  her  eyes, 
His  utterance  bestowing,  — 

A  silver  flute's  clear  harmonies 
On  which  a  god  was  blowing. 


HYP  ATI  A.  375 

Yet  not  of  Plato's  sounding  spheres, 

And  universal  Pan, 
She  spoke  ;  but  searched  historic  years, 

The  sisterhood  to  scan 
Of  women,  —  girt  with  ills  and  fears,  — 

Slaves  to  the  tyrant,  Man. 

Their  crosiered  banner  she  unfurled, 

And  onward  pushed  her  quest 
Through  golden  ages  of  a  world 

By  their  deliverance  blest :  — 
At  all  who  stay  their  hands  she  hurled 

Defiance  from  her  breast. 

I  saw  her  burning  words  infuse 

A  warmth  through  many  a  heart, 
As  still,  in  bright  successive  views, 

She  drew  her  sex's  part ; 
Discoursing,  like  the  Lesbian  Muse, 

Of  work,  and  song,  and  art. 

Why  vaunt,  I  thought,  the  past,  or  say 

The  later  is  the  less  ? 
Our  Sappho  sang  but  yesterday, 

Of  whom  two  climes  confess 
Heaven's  flame  within  her  wore  away 

Her  earthly  loveliness. 

So  let  thy  wild  heart  ripple  on, 

Brave  girl,  through  vale  and  city  ! 
Spare,  of  its  listless  moments,  one 

To  this,  thy  poet's  ditty  ; 
Nor  long  forbear,  when  all  is  done, 

Thine  own  sweet  self  to  pity. 


376 


LATER  POEMS. 

The  priestess  of  the  Sestian  tower, 
Whose  knight  the  sea  swam  over, 

Among  her  votaries'  gifts  no  flower 
Of  heart's-ease  could  discover : 

She  died,  but  in  no  evil  hour, 
Who,  dying,  clasped  her  lover. 

The  rose-tree  has  its  perfect  life 
When  the  full  rose  is  blown  ; 

Some  height  of  womanhood  the  wife 
Beyond  thy  dream  has  known  ; 

Set  not  thy  head  and  heart  at  strife 
To  keep  thee  from  thine  own. 

Hypatia  !  thine  essence  rare 
The  rarer  joy  should  merit : 

Possess  thee  of  that  common  share 
Which  lesser  souls  inherit : 

All  gods  to  thee  their  garlands  bear,  - 
Take  one  from  Love  and  wear  it ! 


THE   HEART   OF   NEW    ENGLAND. 

OLONG  are  years  of  waiting,  when  lovers'  hearts 
are  bound 

By  words  that  hold  in  life  and  death,  and  last  the  half- 
world  round ; 
Long,  long  for  him  who  wanders  far  and  strives  with 

all  his  main, 
But  crueller  yet  for  her  who  bides  at  home  and  hides 

her  pain  ! 
And  lone  are  the  homes  of  New  England. 


THE  HEART  OF  NEW  ENGLAND.      377 

'T  was  in  the  mellow  summer  I  heard  her  sweet  reply; 
The  barefoot  lads  and  lassies  a-berrying  went  by  ; 
The  locust  dinned  amid  the  trees  ;  the  fields  were  high 

with  corn  ; 
The  white-sailed  clouds  against  the  sky  like  ships  were 

onward  borne  : 
And  blue  are  the  skies  of  New  England. 

Her  lips  were  like  the  raspberries;  her  cheek  was  soft 

and  fair, 

And  little  breezes  stopped  to  lift  the  tangle  of  her  hair; 
A  light  was  in   her  hazel  eyes,  and  she  was  nothing 

loth 
To  hear  the  words  her  lover  spoke,  and  pledged  me 

there  her  troth  ; 
And  true  is  the  word  of  New  England. 

When  September  brought  the  golden-rod,  and  maples 
burned  like  fire, 

And  bluer  than  in  August  rose  the  village  smoke  and 
higher, 

And  large  and  red  among  the  stacks  the  ripened  pump- 
kins shone,  — 

One  hour,  in  which  to  say  farewell,  was  left  to  us  alone; 
And  sweet  are  the  lanes  of  New  England. 

We  loved  each  other  truly  !  hard,  hard  it  was  to  part ; 
But  my  ring  was  on  her  finger,  and  her  hair  lay  next 

my  heart. 
"  'T  is  but  a  year,  my  darling,"  I  said  ;  "  in  one  short 

year, 
When  our  Western  home  is  ready,  I  shall  seek  my 

Katie  here  "  ; 
And  brave  is  the  hope  of  New  England. 


378  LATER  POEMS. 

I  went  to  gain  a  home  for  her,  and  in  the  Golden  State 
With  head  and  hand  I  planned  and  toiled,  and  early 

worked  and  late  ; 

But  luck  was  all  against  me,  and  sickness  on  me  lay, 
And  ere  I  got  my  strength  again  't  was  many  a  weary 

day; 
And  long  are  the  thoughts  of  New  England. 

And  many  a  day,  and  many  a  month,  and  thrice  the 

rolling  year, 
I  bravely  strove,  and  still  the  goal  seemed  never  yet 

more  near. 
My  Katie's  letters  told  me  that  she  kept  her  promise 

true, 

But  now,  for  very  hopelessness,  my  own  to  her  were  few  ; 
And  stern  is  the  pride  of  New  England. 

But   still  she  .trusted  in  me,  though  sick  with  hope 

deferred  ; 
No  more  among  the  village  choir  her  voice  was  sweetest 

heard ; 
For  when  the  wild  northeaster  of  the  fourth  long  winter 

blew, 
So  thin  her  frame  with  pining,  the  cold  wind  pierced 

her  through  ; 
And  chilj  are  the  blasts  of  New  England. 

At  last  my  fortunes  bettered,  on  the  far  Pacific  shore, 
And  I  thought  to  see  old  Windham  and  my  patient  love 

once  more  ; 
When  a  kinsman's  letter  reached  me  :  "  Come  at  once, 

or  come  too  late  ! 
Your  Katie's  strength  is  failing  ;  if  you  love  her,  do  not 

wait : 
Come  back  to  the  elms  of  New  England." 


THE  HEART  OF  NEW  ENGLAND.       379 

O,  it  wrung  my  heart   with   sorrow !     I  left   all   else 
behind, 

And  straight  for  dear  New  England  I  speeded  like  the 
wind. 

The  day  and  night  were  blended  till  I  reached  my  boy- 
hood's home, 

And  the  old  cliffs  seemed  to  mock  me  that  I  had  not 

sooner  come  ; 
And  gray  are  the  rocks  of  New  England. 

I  could  not  think  't  was  Katie,  who  sat  before  me  there 
Reading  her  Bible  —  'twas  my  gift  —  and  pillowed  in 

her  chair. 

A  ring,  with  all  my  letters,  lay  on  a  little  stand,  — 
She  could  no  longer  wear  it,  so  frail  her  poor,  white 

hand  ! 
But  strong  is  the  love  of  New  England. 

Her  hair  had  lost  its  tangle  and  was  parted  off  her 

brow ; 
She  used  to  be  a  joyous  girl, — but  seemed  an  angel 

now, — 

Heaven's  darling,  mine  no  longer  ;  yet  in  her  hazel  eyes 
The  same  dear  love-light  glistened,  as  she  soothed  my 

bitter  cries  : 
And  pure  is  the  faith  of  New  England. 

A  month  I  watched  her  dying,  pale,  pale  as  any  rose 
That  drops  its  petals  one  by  one  and  sweetens  as  it 

goes. 
My  life  was   darkened   when   at  last   her  large   eyes 

closed  in  death, 
And  I  heard  my  own  name  whispered  as  she  drew  her 

parting  breath ; 
Still,  still  was  the  heart  of  New  England. 


380  LATER  POEMS. 

It  was  a  woful  funeral  the  coming  sabbath-day ; 

We  bore  her  to  the  barren  hill  on  which  the  graveyard 

lay, 
And  when  the  narrow  grave  was  filled,  and  what  we 

might  was  done, 
Of  all  the  stricken  group  around   I  was  the  loneliest 

one ; 
And  drear  are  the  hills  of  New  England. 

I  gazed  upon  the  stunted  pines,  the  bleak  November 
sky, 

And  knew  that  buried  deep  with  her  my  heart  hence- 
forth would  lie ; 

And  waking  in  the  solemn  nights  my  thoughts  still 
thither  go 

To  Katie,  lying  in  her  grave  beneath  the  winter  snow  ; 
And  cold  are  the  snows  of  New  England. 


THE   DISCOVERER. 

I  HAVE  a  little  kinsman 
Whose  earthly  summers  are  but  three, 
And  yet  a  voyager  is  he 
Greater  than  Drake  or  Frobisher, 
Than  all  their  peers  together  ! 
He  is  a  brave  discoverer, 
And,  far  beyond  the  tether 
Of  them  who  seek  the  frozen  Pole, 
Has  sailed  where  the  noiseless  surges  rolL 
Ay,  he  has  travelled  whither 
A  winged  pilot  steered  his  bark 
Through  the  portals  of  the  dark, 


THE  DISCOVERER.  381 

Past  hoary  Mimir's  well  and  tree, 
Across  the  unknown  sea. 


Suddenly,  in  his  fair  young  hour, 
Came  one  who  bore  a  flower, 
And  laid  it  in  his  dimpled  hand 

With  this  command : 
"  Henceforth  thou  art  a  rover  ! 
Thou  must  make  a  voyage  far, 
Sail  beneath  the  evening  star, 
And  a  wondrous  land  discover." 
—  With  his  sweet  smile  innocent 

Our  little  kinsman  went. 

Since  that  time  no  word 

From  the  absent  has  been  heard. 

Who  can  tell 

How  he  fares,  or  answer  well 
What  the  little  one  has  found 
Since  he  left  us,  outward  bound  ? 
Would  that  he  might  return  ! 
Then  should  we  learn 
From  the  pricking  of  his  chart 
How  the  skyey  roadways  part. 
Hush  !  does  not  the  baby  this  way  bring, 
To  lay  beside  this  severed  curl, 

Some  starry  offering 
Of  chrysolite  or  pearl  ? 

Ah,  no  !  not  so  ! 
We  may  follow  on  his  track, 

But  he  comes  not  back. 

And  yet  I  dare  aver 
He  is  a  brave  discoverer 


382  LATER  POEMS. 

Of  climes  his  elders  do  not  know. 

He  has  more  learning  than  appears 

On  the  scroll  of  twice  three  thousand  years, 

More  than  in  the  groves  is  taught, 

Or  from  furthest  Indies  brought ; 

He  knows,  perchance,  how  spirits  fare,  — 

What  shapes  the  angels  wear, 

What  is  their  guise  and  speech 

In  those  lands  beyond  our  reach,  — 

And  his  eyes  behold 
Things  that  shall  never,  never  be  to  mortal  hearers  told 


SISTER   BEATRICE. 

A  LEGEND   FROM   THE    "  SERMONES    DISCIPULI  "   OF    JEAN 
HEROLT,   THE   DOMINICAN,    A.    D.    1518. 

A  CLOISTER  tale,  —  a  strange  and  ancient  thing 
Long  since  on  vellum  writ  in  gules  and  or  : 
And  why  should  Chance  to  me  this  trover  bring 

From  the  grim  dust-heap  of  forgotten  lore, 
And  not  to  that  gray  bard  still  measuring 

His  laurelled  years  by  music's  golden  score. 
Nor  to  some  comrade  who  like  him  has  caught 
The  charm  of  lands  by  me  too  long  unsought  ? 

Why  not  to  one  who,  with  a  steadfast  eye, 
Ingathering  her  shadow  and  her  sheen, 

Saw  Venice  as  she  is,  and,  standing  nigh, 

Drew  from  the  life  that  old,  dismantled  queen  ? 

Or  to  the  poet  through  whom  I  well  descry 
Castile,  and  the  Campeador's  demesne  ? 


SISTER  BEATRICE.  383 

Or  to  that  eager  one  whose  quest  has  found 
Each  place  of  long  renown,  the  world  around  ; 

Whose  foot  has  rested  firm  on  either  hill, — 

The  sea-girt  height  where  glows  the  midnight  sun, 

And  wild  Parnassus  ;  whose  melodious  skill 
Has  left  no  song  untried,  no  wreath  unwon  ? 

Why  not  to  these  ?     Yet,  since  by  Fortune's  will 
This  quaint  task  given  me  I  must  not  shun, 

My  verse  shall  render,  fitly  as  it  may, 

An  old  church  legend,  meet  for  Christmas  Day. 

Once  on  a  time  (so  read  the  monkish  pages), 
Within  a  convent  —  that  doth  still  abide 

Even  as  it  stood  in  those  devouter  ages, 
Near  a  fair  city,  by  the  highway's  side  — 

There  dwelt  a  sisterhood  of  them  whose  wages 
Are  stored  in  heaven  :  each  a  virgin  bride 

Of  Christ,  and  bounden  meekly  to  endure 

In  faith,  and  works,  and  chastity  most  pure. 

A  convent,  and  within  a  summer-land, 
Like  that  of  Browning  and  Boccaccio  ! 

Years  since,  my  greener  fancy  would  have  planned 
Its  station  thus  :  it  should  have  had,  I  trow, 

A  square  and  flattened  bell-tower,  that  might  stand 
Above  deep- windowed  buildings  long  and  low, 

Closed  all  securely  by  a  vine-clung  wall, 

And  shadowed  on  one  side  by  cypress  tall. 

Within  the  gate,  a  garden  set  with  care  : 

Box-bordered  plots,  where  peach  and  almond  trees 

Rained  blossoms  on  the  maidens  walking  there, 
Or  rustled  softly  in  the  summer  breeze  ; 


384  LATER  POEMS. 

Here  were  sweet  jessamine  and  jonquil  rare, 

And  arbors  meet  for  pious  talk  at  ease  ; 
There  must  have  been  a  dove-cote  too,  I  know, 
Where  white-winged  birds  like  spirits  come  and  go. 

Outside,  the  thrush  and  lark  their  music  made 
Beyond  the  olive-grove  at  dewy  morn  ; 

By  noon,  cicalas,  shrilling  in  the  shade 
Of  oak  and  ilex,  woke  the  peasant's  horn  ; 

And,  at  the  time  when  into  darkness  fade 

The  vineyards,  from  their  purple  depths  were  borne 

The  nightingale's  responses  to  the  prayer 

Of  those  sweet  saints  at  vespers,  meek  and  fair. 

Such  is  the  place  that,  with  the  hand  and  eye 

Which  are  the  joy  of  youth,  I  should  have  painted. 

Say  not,  who  look  thereon,  that  't  is  awry  — 
Like  nothing  real,  by  rhymesters'  use  attainted. 

Ah  well  !  then  put  the  faulty  picture  by, 
And  help  me  draw  an  abbess  long  since  sainted. 

Think  of  your  love,  each  one,  and  thereby  guess 

The  fashion  of  this  lady's  beauteousness. 

For  in  this  convent  Sister  Beatrice, 

Of  all  her  nuns  the  fairest  and  most  young, 

Became,  through  grace  and  special  holiness, 

Their  sacred  head,  and  moved,  her  brood  among, 

Devote  (Fame  et  fervente  au  service  ; 

And  thrice  each  day,  their  hymns  and  Aves  sung, 

At  Mary's  altar  would  before  them  kneel, 

Keeping  her  vows  with  chaste  and  pious  zeal. 

Now  in  the  Holy  Church  there  was  a  clerk, 
A  godly-seeming  man  (as  such  there  be 


SISTER  PEA  TRICE.  385 

Whose  selfish  hearts  with  craft  and  guile  are  dark), 
Young,  gentle-phrased,  of  handsome  mien  and  free. 

His  passion  chose  this  maiden  for  its  mark, 
Begrudging  heaven  her  white  chastity, 

And  with  most  sacrilegious  art  the  while 

He  sought  her  trustful  nature  to  beguile. 

Oft  as  they  met,  with  subtle  hardihood 

He  still  more  archly  played  the  traitor's  part, 

And  strove  to  wake  that  murmur  in  her  blood 
That  times  the  pulses  of  a  woman's  heart ; 

And  in  her  innocence  she  long  withstood 
The  secret  tempter,  but  at  last  his  art 

Changed  all  her  tranquil  thoughts  to  love's  desire, 

Her  vestal  flame  to  earth's  unhallowed  fire. 

So  the  fair  governess,  o'ermastered,  gave 

Herself  to  the  destroyer,  yet  as  one 
That  slays,  in  pity,  her  sweet  self,  to  save 

Another  from  some  wretched  deed  undone  ; 
But  when  she  found  her  heart  was  folly's  slave, 

She  sought  the  altar  which  her  steps  must  shun 
Thenceforth,  and  yielded  up  her  sacred  trust, 
Ere  tasting  that  false  fruit  which  turns  to  dust. 

One  eve  the  nuns  beheld  her  entering 
Alone,  as  if  for  prayer  beneath  the  rood, 

Their  chapel-shrine,  wherein  the  offering 

And  masterpiece  of  some  great  painter  stood,  — 

The  Virgin  Mother,  without  plume  or  wing 
Ascending,  poised  in  rapt  beatitude, 

With  hands  crosswise,  and  intercession  mild 

For  all  who  crave  her  mercy  undefiled. 


386  LATER  POEMS. 

There  Beatrice — poor,  guilty,  desperate  maid  — 
Took  from  her  belt  the  convent's  blessed  keys, 

And  with  them  on  the  altar  humbly  laid 
Her  missal,  uttering  such  words  as  these 

(Her  eyes  cast  down,  and  all  her  soul  afraid)  : 
"  O  dearest  mistress,  hear  me  on  my  knees 

Confess  to  thee,  in  helplessness  and  shame, 

I  am  no  longer  fit  to  speak  thy  name. 

"  Take  back  the  keys  wherewith  in  constancy 
Thy  house  and  altar  I  have  guarded  well  ! 

No  more  may  Beatrice  thy  .servant  be, 
For  earthly  love  her  steps  must  needs  compel. 

Forget  me  in  this  sore  infirmity 
When  my  successor  here  her  beads  shall  tell." 

This  said,  the  girl  withdrew  her  as  she  might, 

And  with  her  lover  fled  that  selfsame  night ; 

Fled  out,  and  into  the  relentless  world 

Where  Love  abides,  but  Love  that  breedeth  Sorrow, 
Where  Purity  still  weeps  with  pinions  furled, 

And  Passion  lies  in  wait  her  all  to  borrow. 
From  such  a  height  to  such  abasement  whirled 

She  fled  that  night,  and  many  a  day  and  morrow 
Abode  indeed  with  him  for  whose  embrace 
She  bartered  heaven  and  her  hope  of  grace. 

O  fickle  will  and  pitiless  desire, 

Twin  wolves,  that  raven  in  a  lustful  heart 

And  spare  not  innocence,  nor  yield,  nor  tire, 

But  youth  from  joy  and  life  from  goodness  part ; 

That  drag  an  unstained  victim  to  the  mire, 
Then  cast  it  soiled  and  hopeless  on  the  mart ! 

Even  so  the  clerk,  once  having  dulled  his  longing, 

A  worse  thing  did  than  thai  first  bitter  wronging. 


SISTER  BEATRICE.  387 

The  base  hind  left  her,  ruined  and  alone, 
Unknowing  by  what  craft  to  gain  her  bread 

In  the  hard  world  that  gives  to  Want  a  stone. 
What  marvel  that  she  drifted  whither  led 

The  current,  that  with  none  to  heed  her  moan 
She  reached  the  shore  where  life  on  husks  is  fed, 

Sank  down,  and,  in  the  strangeness  of  her  fall, 

Among  her  fellows  was  the  worst  of  all ! 

Thus  stranded,  her  fair  body,  consecrate 
To  holiness,  was  smutched  by  spoilers  rude, 

And  entered  all  the  seven  fiends  where  late 
Abode  a  seeming  angel,  pure  and  good. 

What  paths  she  followed  in  such  woful  state, 
By  want,  remorse,  and  the  world's  hate  pursued, 

Were  known  alone  to  them  whose  spacious  ken 

O'erlooks  not  even  the  poor  Magdalen. 

After  black  years  their  dismal  change  had  wrought 
Upon  her  beauty,  and  there  was  no  stay 

By  which  to  hold,  some  chance  or  yearning  brought 
Her  vagrant  feet  along  the  convent-way  ; 

And  half  as  in  a  dream  there  came  a  thought 
(For  years  she  had  not  dared  to  think  or  pray) 

That  moved  her  there  to  bow  her  in  the  dust 

And  bear  no  more,  but  perish  as  she  must. 

Crouched  by  the  gate  she  waited,  it  is  told, 
Brooding  the  past  and  all  of  life  forlorn, 

Nor  dared  to  lift  her  pallid  face  and  old 
Against  the  passer's  pity  or  his  scorn  ; 

And  there  perchance  had  ere  another  morn 
Died  of  her  shame  and  sorrows  manifold, 

But  that  a  portress  bade  her  pass  within 

For  solace  of  her  wretchedness  or  sin. 


388  LATER  POEMS. 

To  whom  the  lost  one,  drinking  now  her  fill 
Of  woe  that  wakened  memories  made  more  drear, 

Said,  "  Was  there  not  one  Beatrice,  until 

Some  time  now  gone,  that  was  an  abbess  here  ?  " 
"  That  was  ?"  the  other  said.     "  Is  she  not  still 

The  convent's  head,  and  still  our  mistress  dear  ? 

Look  !  even  now  she  comes  with  open  hand, 

The  purest,  saintliest  lady  in  the  land  !  " 

And  Beatrice,  uplifting  then  her  eyes, 
Saw  her  own  self  (in  womanhood  divine, 

It  seemed)  draw  nigh,  with  holy  look  and  wise, 
The  aged  portress  leaving  at  a  sign. 

Even  while  she  marvelled  at  that  strange  disguise, 
There  stood  before  her,  radiant,  benign, 

The  blessed  Mother  of  Mercy,  all  aflame 

With  light,  as  if  from  Paradise  she  came  ! 

From  her  most  sacred  lips,  upon  the  ears 

Of  Beatrice,  these  words  of  wonder  fell : 

"  Daughter,  thy  sins  are  pardoned  ;  dry  thy  tears, 

And  in  this  house  again  my  mercies  tell, 

For,  in  thy  stead,  myself  these  woful  years 

Have  governed  here  and  borne  thine  office  well. 

Take  back  the  keys  :  save  thee  and  me  alone 

No  one  thy  fall  and  penance  yet  hath  known  !  " 

Even  then,  as  faded  out  that  loveliness, 
The  abbess,  looking  down,  herself  descried 

Clean-robed  and  spotless,  such  as  all  confess 
To  be  a  saint  and  fit  for  Heaven's  bride. 

So  ends  the  legend,  and  ye  well  may  guess 
(Who,  being  untempted,  walk  in  thoughtless  pride) 

God  of  his  grace  can  make  the  sinful  pure, 

And  while  earth  lasts  shall  mercy  still  endure. 


SEEKING   THE  MAY-FLOWER.  389 


SEEKING   THE   MAY-FLOWER. 

THE  sweetest  sound  our  whole  year  round- 
'T  is  the  first  robin  of  the  spring  ! 
The  song  of  the  full  orchard  choir 
Is  not  so  fine  a  thing. 

Glad  sights  are  common  :  Nature  draws 
Her  random  pictures  through  the  year, 
But  oft  her  music  bids  us  long 

Remember  those  most  dear. 

To  me,  when  in  the  sudden  spring 

I  hear  the  earliest  robin's  lay, 
With  the  first  trill  there  comes  again 
One  picture  of  the  May. 

The  veil  is  parted  wide,  and  lo, 

A  moment,  though  my  eyelids  close, 
Once  more  I  see  that  wooded  hill 
Where  the  arbutus  grows. 

I  see  the  village  dryad  kneel, 

Trailing  her  slender  fingers  through 
The  knotted  tendrils,  as  she  lifts 

Their  pink,  pale  flowers  to  view. 

Once  more  I  dare  to  stoop  beside 

The  dove-eyed  beauty  of  my  choice, 
And  long  to  touch  her  careless  hair, 
And  think  how  dear  her  voice. 


39O  LATER  POEMS. 

My  eager,  wandering  hands  assist 

With  fragrant  blooms  her  lap  to  fill, 
And  half  by  chance  they  meet  her  own, 
Half  by  our  young  hearts'  will. 

Till,  at  the  last,  those  blossoms  won,  — 
Like  her,  so  pure,  so  sweet,  so  shy,  — 
Upon  the  gray  and  lichened  rocks 
Close  at  her  feet  I  lie. 

Fresh  blows  the  breeze  through  hemlock-trees, 

The  fields  are  edged  with  green  below  ; 
And  naught  but  youth  and  hope  and  love 
We  know  or  care  to  know  ! 

Hark  !  from  the  moss-clung  apple-bough, 

Beyond  the  tumbled  wall,  there  broke 
That  gurgling  music  of  the  May,  — 
'T  was  the  first  robin  spoke  ! 

I  heard  it,  ay,  and  heard  it  not,  — 

For  little  then  my  glad  heart  wist 
What  toil  and  time  should  come  to  pass, 
And  what  delight  be  missed  ; 

Nor  thought  thereafter,  year  by  year 
Hearing  that  fresh  yet  olden  song, 
To  yearn  for  unreturning  joys 
That  with  its  joy  belong. 


HAWTHORNE.  391 


HAWTHORNE 

HARP  of  New  England  song, 
That  even  in  slumber  tremblest  with  the  touch 
Of  poets  who  like  the  four  winds  from  thee  waken 
All  harmonies  that  to  thy  strings  belong,  — 
Say,  wilt  thou  blame  the  younger  hands  too  much 

Which  from  thy  laurelled  resting-place  have  taken 
Thee,  crowned-one,  in  their  hold  ?     There  is  a  name 
Should  quicken  thee  !     No  carol  Hawthorne  sang, 
Yet  his  articulate  spirit,  like  thine  own, 

Made  answer,  quick  as  flame, 
To  each  breath  of  the  shore  from  which  he  sprang, 
And  prose  like  his  was  poesy's  high  tone. 

By  measureless  degrees 
Star  follows  star  throughout  the  rounded  night. 

Far  off  his  path  began,  yet  reached  the  near 
Sweet  influences  of  the  Pleiades, — 
A  portion  and  a  sharer  of  the  light 

That  shall  so  long  outlast  each  burning  sphere. 
Beneath  the  shade  and  whisper  of  the  pines 

Two  youths  were  fostered  in  the  Norseland  air ; 
One  found  an  eagle's  plume,  and  one  the  wand 

Wherewith  a  seer  divines  : 
Now  but  the  Minstrel  lingers  of  that  pair,  — 
The  rod  has  fallen  from  the  mage's  hand. 

Gray  on  thy  mountain  height, 
More  fair  than  wonderland  beside  thy  streams, 
Thou  with  the  splendors  twain  of  youth  and  age, 


392  LATER  POEMS. 

This  was  the  son  who  read  thy  heart  aright, 
Of  whom  thou  wast  beholden  in  his  dreams,  — 
The  one  New-Englander  !     Upon  whose  page 
Thine  offspring  still  are  animate,  and  move 

Adown  thy  paths,  a  quaint  and  stately  throng : 
Grave  men  of  God  who  made  the  olden  law, 
Fair  maidens,  meet  for  love,  — 
All  living  types  that  to  the  coast  belong 

Since  Carver  from  the  prow  thy  headland  saw. 

What  should  the  master  be 
Who  to  the  world  New-England's  self  must  render, 

Her  best  interpreter,  her  very  own  ? 
How  spake  the  brooding  Mother,  strong  and  tender, 
Back-looking  through  her  youth  betwixt  the  moan 

Of  forests  and  the  murmur  of  the  sea  ? 
"  Thou  too,  "  she  said,  "  must  first  be  set  aside 

To  keep  my  ancient  vigil  for  a  space,  — 
Taught  by  repression,  by  the  combating 

With  thine  own  pride  of  pride, 
An  unknown  watcher  in  a  lonely  place 

With  none  on  whom  thine  utterance  to  fling. " 

But  first  of  all  she  fed 
Her  heart's  own  favorite  upon  the  store 

Of  precious  things  she  treasures  in  her  woods, 
Of  charm  and  story  in  her  valleys  spread. 
For  him  her  whispering  winds  and  brooks  that  pour 

Made  ceaseless  music  in  the  solitudes; 
The  manifold  bright  surges  of  her  deep 

Gave  him  their  light.     Within  her  voice's  call 
She  lured  him  on,  by  roadways  overhung 

With  elms,  that  he  might  keep 
Remembrance  of  her  legends  as  they  fall 
Her  shaded  walks  and  gabled  roofs  among. 


HA  IVTHORNE.  393 

Within  the  mists  she  drew, 
Anon,  his  silent  footsteps,  as  her  own 
Were  led  of  old,  until  he  came  to  be 
An  eremite,  whose  life  the  desert  knew, 
And  gained  companionship  in  dreams  alone. 

The  world,  it  seemed,  had  naught  for  such  as  he,  — 
For  one  who  in  his  heart's  deep  wilderness 

Shrunk  darkling,  and,  whatever  wind  might  blow, 
Found  no  quick  use  for  potent  hands  and  fain, 

No  chance  that  might  express 
To  human-kind  the  thoughts  which  moved  him  so. 
—  O,  deem  not  those  long  years  were  quite  in  vain! 

For  his  was  the  brave  soul 
Which,  touched  with  fire,  dwells  not  on  whatsoever 

Its  outer  senses  hold  in  their  intent, 
But,  sleepless  even  in  sleep,  must  gather  toll 
Of  dreams  which  pass  like  barks  upon  the  river 

And  make  each  vision  Beauty's  instrument ; 
That  from  its  own  love  Love's  delight  can  tell, 

And  from  its  own  grief  guess  the  shrouded  Sorrow ; 
From  its  own  joyousness  of  Joy  can  sing  ; 

That  can  predict  so  well 
From  its  own  dawn  the  lustre  of  to-morrow, 
The  whole  flight  from  the  flutter  of  the  wing. 

And  his  the  gift  which  sees 
A  revelation  and  a  tropic  sign 

In  the  lone  passion-flower,  and  can  discover 
The  likeness  of  the  far  Antipodes, 
Though  but  a  leaf  is  stranded  from  the  brine ; 

His  the  fine  spirit  which  is  so  true  a  lover 
Of  sovran  Art,  that  all  the  becks  of  life 

Allure  it  not  until  the  work  be  wrought. 


394  LATER  POEMS. 

Nay,  though  the  shout  and  smoke  of  combat  rose, 

He,  through  the  changeful  strife, 
Eternal  loveliness  more  closely  sought, 
And  Beauty's  changeless  law  and  sure  repose. 

Was  it  not  well  that  one  — 
One,  if  no  more  —  should  meditate  aloof, 

Though  not  for  naught  the  time's  heroic  quarrel, 
From  what  men  rush  to  do  and  what  is  done. 
He  little  knew  to  join  the  web  and  woof 

Whereof  slow  Progress  weaves  her  rich  apparel, 
But  toward  the  Past  half  longing  turned  his  head. 

His  deft  hand  dallied  with  its  common  share 
Of  human  toil,  nor  sought  new  loads  to  lift, 

But  held  itself,  instead, 
All  consecrate  to  uses  that  make  fair, 
By  right  divine  of  his  mysterious  gift. 

How  should  the  world  discern 
The  artist's  self,  save  through  the  fine  creation 

Of  his  rare  moment  ?     How,  but  from  his  song, 
The  unfettered  spirit  of  the  minstrel  learn  ? 
Yet  on  this  one  the  stars  had  set  the  station 

Which  to  the  chief  romancer  should  belong: 
Child  of  the  Beautiful !  whose  regnant  brow 

She  made  her  canopy,  and  from  his  eyes 
Looked  outward  with  a  steadfast  purple  gleam. 

Who  saw  him  marvelled  how 
The  soul  of  that  impassioned  ray  could  lie 
So  calm  beyond,  —  unspoken  all  its  dream. 

What  sibyl  to  him  bore 
The  secret  oracles  that  move  and  haunt  ? 
At  night's  dread  noon  he  scanned  the  enchanted  glass, 


HA  WTHORNE.  395 

Ay,  and  himself  the  warlock's  mantle  wore, 
Nor  to  the  thronging  phantoms  said  Avaunt, 

But  waved  his  rod  and  bade  them  rise  and  pass ; 
Till  thus  he  drew  the  lineaments  of  men 

Who  fought  the  old  colonial  battles  three, 
Who  with  the  lustihood  of  Nature  warred 
And  made  her  docile,  —  then 
Wrestled  with  Terror  and  with  Tyranny, 
Twin  wardens  of  the  scaffold  and  the  sword. 

He  drew  his  native  land, 
The  few  and  rude  plantations  of  her  Past, 

Fringed  by  the  beaches  of  her  sounding  shore; 
Her  children,  as  he  drew  them,  there  they  stand; 
There,  too,  her  Present,  with  an  outline  cast 

Still  from  the  shape  those  other  centuries  wore. 
Betimes  the  orchards  and  the  clover-fields 

Change  into  woods  o'ershadowing  a  host 

That  winds  along  the  Massachusetts  Path ; 

The  sword  of  Standish  shields 

The  Plymouth  band,  and  where  the  lewd  ones  boast 
Stern  Endicott  pours  out  his  godly  wrath. 

Within  the  Province  House 
The  ancient  governors  hold  their  broidered  state,  — 

Still  gleam  the  lights,  the  shadows  come  and  go ; 
Here  once  again  the  powdered  guests  carouse, 
The  masquerade  lasts  on,  the  night  is  late. 

Thrice  waves  a  mist-invoking  wand,  and  lo, 
What  troubled  sights  !     What  summit  bald  and  steep 

Where  stands  a  ladder  'gainst  the  accursed  tree  ? 
What  dark  processions  thither  slowly  climb  ? 

Anon,  what  lost  ones  keep 
Their  midnight  tryst  with  forms  that  evil  be, 
Around  the  witch-fire  in  the  forest  grim  1 


396  LATER  POEMS. 

Clearly  the  master's  plan 
Revealed  his  people,  even  as  they  were, 

The  prayerful  elder  and  the  winsome  maid, 
The  errant  roisterer,  the  Puritan, 
Dark  Pyncheon,  mournful  Hester,  —  all  are  there. 

But  none  save  he  in  our  own  time  so  laid 
His  summons  on  man's  spirit ;  none  but  he, 

Whether  the  light  thereof  were  clear  or  clouded, 
Thus  on  his  canvas  fixed  the  human  soul, 

The  thoughts  of  mystery, 

In  deep  hearts  by  this  mortal  guise  enshrouded, 
Wild  hearts  that  like  the  church-bells  ring  and  toll 

Two  natures  in  him  strove 

Like  day  with  night,  his  sunshine  and  his  gloom. 
To  him  the  stern  forefathers'  creed  descended, 
The  weight  of  some  inexorable  Jove 
Prejudging  from  the  cradle  to  the  tomb ; 

But  therewithal  the  lightsome  laughter  blended 
Of  that  Arcadian  sweetness  undismayed 

Which  finds  in  Love  its  law,  and  graces  still 
The  rood,  the  penitential  symbol  worn,  — 

Which  sees,  beyond  the  shade, 
The  Naiad  nymph  of  every  rippling  rill, 

And  hears  quick  Fancy  wind  her  wilful  horn. 

What  if  he  brooded  long 
On  Time  and  Fate,  —  the  ominous  progression 

Of  years  that  with  Man's  retributions  frown,  — 
The  destinies  which  round  his  footsteps  throng, — 
Justice,  that  heeds  not  Mercy's  intercession, — 

Crime,  on  its  own  head  calling  vengeance  down,  — 
Deaf  Chance  and  blind,  that,  like  the  mountain-slide 

Puts  out  Youth's  heart  of  fire  and  all  is  dark ! 


HA  WTHORNE.  397 

What  though  the  blemish  which,  in  aught  of  earth, 

The  maker's  hand  defied, 
Was  plain  to  him,  —  the  one  evasive  mark 

Wherewith  Death  stamps  us  for  his  own  at  birth  ! 

Ah,  none  the  less  we  know 
He  felt  the  imperceptible  fine  thrill 

With  which  the  waves  of  being  palpitate, 
Whether  in  ecstasy  of  joy  or  woe, 
And  saw  the  strong  divinity  of  Will 

Bringing  to  halt  the  stolid  tramp  of  Fate ; 
Nor  from  his  work  was  ever  absent  quite 

The  presence  which,  o'ercast  it  as  we  may, 
Things  far  beyond  our  reason  can  suggest : 

There  was  a  drifting  light 
In  Donatello's  cell,  —a  fitful  ray 
Of  sunshine  came  to  hapless  Clifford's  breast 

Into  such  blossom  brake 
Our  northern  hedge,  that  neither  morta^  sadness 

Nor  the  drear  thought  of  lives  that  strive  and  fail, 
Nor  any  hues  its  sombre  leaves  might  take 
From  clouded  skies,  could  overcome  its  gladness 

Or  in  the  blessing  of  its  shade  prevail. 
Fresh  sprays  it  yielded  them  of  Merry  Mount 

For  wedding  wreaths ;  blithe  Phoebe  with  the  sweet 
Pure  flowers  her  promise  to  her  lover  gave  : 

Beside  it,  from  a  fount 

Where  Pearl  and  Pansie  plashed  their  innocent  feet, 
A  brook  ran  on  and  kissed  Zenobia's  grave. 

Silent  and  dark  the  spell 
Laid  on  New  England  by  the  frozen  North  ; 

Long,  long  the  months,  —  and  yet  the  Winter  ends, 


398  LATER  POEMS. 

The  snow-wraiths  vanish,  and  rejoicing  well 
The  dandelions  from  the  grass  leap  forth, 

And  Spring  through  budding  birch  and  willow  sends 
Her  wind  of  Paradise.     And  there  are  left 

Poets  to  sing  of  all,  and  welcome  still 
The  robin's  voice,  the  humble-bee's  wise  droae ; 

Nor  are  we  yet  bereft 
Of  one  whose  sagas  ever  at  his  will 

Can  answer  back  the  ocean,  tone  for  tone. 

But  he  whose  quickened  eye 
Saw  through  New  England's   life  her  inmost  spirit, — 

Her  heart,  and  all  the  stays  on  which  it  leant, — 
Returns  not,  since  he  laid  the  pencil  by 
Whose  mystic  touch  none  other  shall  inherit ! 

What  though  its  work  unfinished  lies  ?     Half-bent 
The  rainbow's  arch  fades  out  in  uppef  air; 

The  shining  cataract  half-way  down  the  height 
Breaks  into  mist;  the  haunting  strain,  that  fell 

On  listeners  unaware, 

Ends  incomplete,  but  through  the  starry  night 
The  ear  still  waits  for  what  it  did  not  tell. 


ALL   IN   A    LIFETIME. 


shall   have  sun  and  shower  from  heaven 
J-      above, 

Thou  shalt  have  flower  and  thorn  from  earth  below, 
Thine  shall  be  foe  to  hate  and  friend  to  love, 
Pleasures  that  others  gain,  the  ills  they  know,  — 
And  all  in  a  lifetime. 


ALL  IN  A   LIFETIME.  '     399 

Hast  thou  a  golden  day,  a  starlit  night, 
Mirth,  and  music,  and  love  without  alloy  ? 

Leave  no  drop  undrunken  of  thy  delight : 
Sorrow  and  shadow  follow  on  thy  joy. 
'T  is  all  in  a  lifetime. 

What  if  the  battle  end  and  thou  hast  lost  ? 

Others  have  lost  the  battles  thou  hast  won  ; 
Haste  thee,  bind  thy  wounds,  nor  count  the  cost : 

Over  the  field  will  rise  to-morrow's  sun. 
'T  is  all  in  a  lifetime. 

Laugh  at  the  braggart  sneer,  the  open  scorn,  — 
'Ware  of  the  secret  stab,  the  slanderous  lie  : 

For  seventy  years  of  turmoil  thou  wast  born, 
Bitter  and  sweet  are  thine  till  these  go  by. 
'T  is  all  in  a  lifetime. 

Reckon  thy  voyage  well,  and  spread  the  sail,  — 
Wind  and  calm  and  current  shall  warp  thy  way ; 

Compass  shall  set  thee  false,  and  chart  shall  fail ; 
Ever  the  waves  will  use  thee  for  their  play. 
'T  is  all  in  a  lifetime. 

Thousands  of  years  agone  were  chance  and  change. 

Thousands  of  ages  hence  the  same  shall  be  ; 
Naught  of  thy  joy  and  grief  is  new  or  strange  : 

Gather  apace  the  good  that  falls  to  thee  ! 
'T  is  all  in  a  lifetime  ! 


400  LATER  POEMS. 


THE   SKULL   IN   THE  GOLD   DRIFT. 

"\  1  THAT  ho  !  dumb  jester,  cease  to  grin  and  mask  it ! 

»  V      Grim  courier,  thou  hast  stayed  upon  the  road  ! 
Yield  up  the  secret  of  this  battered  casket, 

This  shard,  where  once  a  living  soul  abode  ! 
What  dost  thou  here  ?  how  long  hast  lain  imbedded 

In  crystal  sands,  the  drift  of  Time's  despair  ; 
Thine  earth  to  earth  with  aureate  dower  wedded, 

Thy  parts  all  changed  to  something  rich  and  rare  ? 

Voiceless  thou  art,  and  yet  a  revelation 

Of  that  most  ancient  world  beneath  the  new ; 
But  who  shall  guess  thy  race,  thy  name  and  station, 

^Eons  and  aeons  ere  these  bowlders  grew  ? 
What  alchemy  can  make  thy  visage  liker 

Its  untransmuted  shape,  thy  flesh  restore, 
Resolve  to  blood  again  thy  golden  ichor, 

Possess  thee  of  the  life  thou  hadst  before  ? 

Before  !     And  when  ?     What  ages  immemorial 

Have  passed  since  daylight  fell  where^thou  dost  sleep  ! 
What  molten  strata,  ay,  and  flotsam  boreal, 

Have  shielded  well  thy  rest,  and  pressed  thee  deep  ! 
Thou  little  wist  what  mighty  floods  descended, 

How  sprawled  the  armored  monsters  in  their  camp, 
Nor  heardest,  when  the  watery  cycle  ended, 

The  mastodon  and  mammoth  o'er  thee  tramp. 

How  seemed  this  globe  of  ours  when  thou  didst  scan  it  ? 
When,  in  its  lusty  youth,  there  sprang  to  birth 


THE  SKULL  IN  THE   GOLD  DRIFT.       40! 

All  that  has  life,  unnurtured,  and  the  planet 
Was  paradise,  the  true  Saturnian  Earth  ! 

Far  toward  the  poles  was  stretched  the  happy  garden  ; 
Earth  kept  it  fair  by  warmth  from  her  own  breast ; 

Toil  had  not  come  to  dwarf  her  sons  and  harden  ; 
No  crime  (there  was  no  want)  perturbed  their  rest. 

How  lived  thy  kind  ?    Was  there  no  duty  blended 

With  all  their  toilless  joy,  —  no  grand  desire  ? 
Perchance  as  shepherds  on  the  meads  they  tended 

Their  flocks,  and  knew  the  pastoral  pipe  and  lyre  ; 
Until  a  hundred  happy  generations, 

Whose  birth  and  death  had  neither  pain  nor  fear, 
At  last,  in  riper  ages,  brought  the  nations 

To  modes  which  we  renew  who  greet  thee  here. 

How  stately  then  they  built  their  royal  cities, 

With  what  strong  engines  speeded  to  and  fro  ; 
What  music  thrilled  their  souls  ;  what  poets'  ditties 

Made  youth  with  love,  and  age  with  honor  glow  ! 
And  had  they  then  their  Homer,  Kepler,  Bacon  ? 

Did  some  Columbus  find  an  unknown  clime  ? 
Was  there  an  archetypal  Christ,  forsaken 

Of  those  he  died  to  save,  in  that  far  time  ? 

When  came  the  end  ?     What  terrible  convulsion 

Heaved  from  within  the  Earth's  distended  shell  ? 
What  pent-up  demons,  by  their  fierce  repulsion, 

Made  of  that  sunlit  crust  a  sunless  hell  ? 
How,  when  the  hour  was  ripe,  those  deathful  forces 

In  one  resistless  doom  o'erwhelmed  ye  all ; 
Ingulfed  the  seas  and  dried  the  river  courses, 

And  made  the  forests  and  the  cities  fall ! 


4O2  LATER  POEMS. 

Ah  me  !  with  what  a  sudden,  dreadful  thunder 

The  whole  round  world  was  split  from  pole  to  pole 
Down  sank  the  continents,  the  waters  under, 

And  fire  burst  forth  where  now  the  oceans  roll ; 
Of  those  wan  flames  the  dismal  exhalations 

Stifled,  anon,  each  living  creature's  breath, 
Dear  life  was  driven  from  its  utmost  stations, 

And  seethed  beneath  the  smoking  pall  of  death  ! 

Then  brawling  leapt  full  height  yon  helme*d  giants  ; 

The  proud  Sierras  on  the  skies  laid  hold; 
Their  watch  and  ward  have  bidden  time  defiance, 

Guarding  thy  grave  amid  the  sands  of  gold. 
Thy  kind  was  then  no  more  !     What  untold  ages, 

Ere  Man,  renewed  from  earth  by  slow  degrees, 
Woke  to  the  strife  he  now  with  Nature  wages 

O'er  ruder  lands  and  more  tempestuous  seas. 

How  poor  the  gold,  that  made  thy  burial  splendid, 

Beside  one  single  annal  of  thy  race, 
One  implement,  one  fragment  that  attended 

Thy  life  —  which  now  has  left  not  even  a  trace  I 
From  the  soul's  realm  awhile  recall  thy  spirit, 

See  how  the  land  is  spread,  how  flows  the  main, 
The  tribes  that  in  thy  stead  the  globe  inherit, 

Their  grand  unrest,  their  eager  joy  and  pain. 

Beneath  our  feet  a  thousand  ages  moulder, 

Grayer  our  skies  than  thine,  the  winds  more  chill ; 
Thine  the  young  world,  and  ours  the  hoarier,  colder, 

But  Man's  unfaltering  heart  is  dauntless  still. 
And  yet  —  and  yet  like  thine  his  solemn  story  ; 

Grope  where  he  will,  transition  lies  before  ; 
We,  too,  must  pass  !  our  wisdom,  works,  and  glory 

In  turn  shall  yield,  and  change,  and  be  no  more. 


SONG  FROM  A   DRAMA.  403 


SONG   FROM   A   DRAMA. 

I   KNOW  not  if  moonlight  or  starlight 
Be  soft  on  the  land  and  the  sea,  — 
I  catch  but  the  near  light,  the  far  light, 

Of  eyes  that  are  burning  for  me  ; 
The  scent  of  the  night,  of  the  roses. 

May  burden  the  air  for  thee,  Sweet,  — 
'T  is  only  the  breath  of  thy  sighing 
I  know,  as  I  lie  at  thy  feet. 

The  winds  may  be  sobbing  or  singing, 

Their  touch  may  be  fervent  or  cold, 
The  night-bells  may  toll  or  be  ringing,  — 

I  care  not,  while  thee  I  enfold  ! 
The  feast  may  go  on,  and  the  music 

Be  scattered  in  ecstasy  round,  — 
Thy  whisper,  "  I  love  thee  !  I  love  thee  !  " 

Hath  flooded  my  soul  with  its  sound. 

I  think  not  of  time  that  is  flying, 

How  short  is  the  hour  I  have  won, 
How  near  is  this  living  to  dying, 

How  the  shadow  still  follows  the  sun  ; 
There  is  naught  upon  earth,  no  desire, 

Worth  a  thought,  though  't  were  had  by  a  sign  ! 
I  love  thee  !  I  love  thee  !  bring  nigher 

Thy  spirit,  thy  kisses,  to  mine 


404  LATER  POEMS. 


THE  SUN-DIAL. 

"  Horas  non  numero  nisi  serenas." 

ONLY  the  sunny  hours 
Are  numbered  here,  — 
No  winter-time  that  lowers, 

No  twilight  drear. 
But  from  a  golden  sky 
When  sunbeams  fall, 
Though  the  bright  moments  fly, — 
They  're  counted  all. 

My  heart  its  transient  woe 

Remembers  not ! 
The  ills  of  long  ago 

Are  half  forgot ; 
But  Childhood's  round  of  bliss, 

Youth's  tender  thrill, 
Hope's  whisper,  Love's  first  kiss,  — 

They  haunt  me  still ! 

Sorrows  are  everywhere, 

Joys  —  all  too  few  ! 
Have  we  not  had  our  share 

Of  pleasure  too  ? 
No  Past  the  glad  heart  cowers, 

No  memories  dark; 
Only  the  sunny  hours 

The  dial  mark. 


MADRIGAL.  405 


'  MADRIGAL. 

DORUS  TO  LYCORIS,  WHO  REPROVED  HIM  FOR  INCONSTANCY. 

WHY  should  I  constant  be  ? 
The  bird  in  yonder  tree, 
This  leafy  summer, 
Hath  not  his  last  year's  mate, 
Nor  dreads  to  venture  fate 
With  a  new-comer. 

Why  should  I  fear  to  sip 
The  sweets  of  each  red  lip  ? 

In  every  bower 
The  roving  bee  may  taste 
(Lest  aught  should  run  to  waste) 

Each  fresh-blown  flower. 

The  trickling  rain  doth  fall 
Upon  us  one  and  all ; 

The  south-wind  kisses 
The  saucy  milkmaid's  cheek, 
The  nun's,  demure  and  meek, 

Nor  any  misses. 

Then  ask  no  more  of  me 
'That  I  should  constant  be, 

Nor  eke  desire  it ; 
Take  not  such  idle  pains 
To  hold  our  love  in  chains, 
f.      Nor  coax,  nor  hire  it 


406  LATER  POEMS. 

Be  all  things  in  thyself,  — 
A  sprite,  a  tricksy  elf, 

Forever  changing, 
So  that  thy  latest  mood 
May  ever  bring  new  food 

To  Fancy  ranging. 

Forget  what  thou  wast  first, 
And  as  I  loved  thee  erst 

In  soul  and  feature, 
I  '11  love  thee  out  of  mind 
When  each  new  morn  shall  find 

Thee  a  new  creature. 


WITH   A   SPRIG   OF   HEATHER. 

TO  THE  LADY  WHO   SENT   ME  A  JAR  OF  HYMETTIAN 

LADY,  had  the  lot  been  mine 
That  befell  the  sage  divine, 
Near  Hymettus  to  be  bred, 
And  in  sleep  on  honey  fed, 
I  would  send  to  you,  be  sure, 
Rhythmic  verses  —  tuneful,  pure, 
Such  as  flowed  when  Greece  was  young^ 
And  the  Attic  songs  were  sung  ; 
I  would  take  your  little  jar, 
Filled  with  sweetness  from  afar,  — 
Brown  as  amber,  bright  as  gold, 
Breathing  odors  manifold, — 
And  would  thank  you,  sip  by  sip, 
With  the  classic  honeyed  lip. 
But  the  gods  did  not  befriend 


THE  LORD'S-DAY  GALE.  407 

Me  in  childhood's  sleep,  nor  send, 
One  by  one,  their  laden  bees, 
That  I  now  might  sing  at  ease 
With  the  winsome  voice  and  word 
In  this  age  too  seldom  heard. 
(Had  they  the  Atlantic  crost, 
Half  their  treasure  had  been  lost !) 
Changed  the  time,  and  gone  the  art 
Of  the  glad  Athenian  heart. 
Take  you,  then,  in  turn,  I  pray, 
For  your  gift,  this  little  spray,  — 
Heather  from  a  breezy  hill 
That  of  Burns  doth  whisper  still. 
On  the  soil  where  this  was  bred 
The  rapt  ploughman  laid  his  head,  \ 
Sang,  and  looking  to  the  sky 
Saw  the  Muses  hovering  nigh. 
From  the  air  and  from  the  gorse 
Scotland's  sweetness  took  its  source  ;  — 
Precious  still  your  jar,  you  see, 
Though  its  honey  stays  with  me. 


THE   LORD'S-DAY  GALE. 

BAY   ST.   LAWRENCE,   AUGUST,    1873. 

IN  Gloucester  port  lie  fishing  craft,  — 
More  stanch  and  trim  were  never  seen 
They  are  sharp  before  and  sheer  abaft, 

And  true  their  lines  the  masts  between. 
Along  the  wharves  of  Gloucester  Town 
Their  fares  are  lightly  handed  down, 
And  the  laden  flakes  to  landward  lean. 


408  LATER  POEMS. 

Well  know  the  men  each  cruising-ground, 
And  where  the  cod  and  mackerel  be  ; 

Old  Eastern  Point  the  schooners  round 
And  leave  Cape  Ann  on  the  larboard  lee  : 

Sound  are  the  planks,  the  hearts  are  bold, 

That  brave  December's  surges  cold 
On  Georges'  shoals  in  the  outer  sea. 

And  some  must  sail  to  the  banks  far  north 
And  set  their  trawls  for  the  hungry  cod,  — 

In  the  ghostly  fog  grope  back  and  forth 
By  shrouded  paths  no  foot  hath  trod ; 

Upon  the  crews  the  ice-winds  blow, 

The  bitter  sleet,  the  frozen  snow,  — 
Their  lives  are  in  the  hand  of  God  ! 

New  England  !  New  England  ! 

Needs  sail  they  must,  so  brave  and  poor, 
Or  June  be  warm  or  Winter  storm, 

Lest  a  wolf  gnaw  through  the  cottage-door  ! 
Three  weeks  at  home,  three  long  months  gooe, 
While  the  patient  goodwives  sleep  alone, 

And  wake  to  hear  the  breakers  roar. 

The  Grand  Bank  gathers  in  its  dead, — 
The  deep  sea-sand  is  their  winding-sheet ; 

Who  does  not  Georges'  billows  dread 
That  dash  together  the  drifting  fleet  ? 

Who  does  not  long  to  hear,  in  May, 

The  pleasant  wash  of  Saint  Lawrence  Bay, 
The  fairest  ground  where  fishermen  meet  ? 

There  the  west  wave  holds  the  red  sunlight 
Till  the  bells  at  home  are  rung  for  nine  : 


THE  LORiyS-DAY  GALE.  409 

Short,  short  the  watch,  and  calm  the  night ; 

The  fiery  northern  streamers  shine  ; 
The  eastern  sky  anon  is  gold, 
And  winds  from  piny  forests  old 

Scatter  the  white  mists  off  the  brine. 

The  Province  craft  with  ours  at  morn 
Are  mingled  when  the  vapors  shift ; 

All  day,  by  breeze  and  current  borne, 
Across  the  bay  the  sailors  drift ; 

With  toll  and  seine  its  wealth  they  win,  — 

The  dappled,  silvery  spoil  come  in 
Fast  as  their  hands  can  haul  and  lift. 

New  England  !  New  England  ! 

Thou  lovest  well  thine  ocean  main  ! 
It  spreadeth  its  locks  among  thy  rocks, 

And  long  against  thy  heart  hath  lain  ; 
Thy  ships  upon  its  bosom  ride 
And  feel  the  heaving  of  its  tide; 

To  thee  its  secret  speech  is  plain. 

Cape  Breton  and  Edward  Isle  between, 
In  strait  and  gulf  the  schooners  lay; 

The  sea  was  all  at  peace,  I  ween, 
The  night  before  that  August  day ; 

Was  never  a  Gloucester  skipper  there, 

But  thought  erelong,  with  a  right  good  fare, 
To  sail  for  home  from  Saint  Eawrence  Bay. 

New  England  !  New  England  ! 

Thy  giant's  love  was  turned  to  hate  ! 
The  winds  control  his  fickle  soul, 

And  in  his  wrath  he  hath  no  mate. 
18 


4IO  LATER  POEMS. 

Thy  shores  his  angry  scourges  tear, 
And  for  thy  children  in  his  care 
The  sudden  tempests  lie  in  wait. 

The  East  Wind  gathered  all  unknown, — 
A  thick  sea-cloud  his  course  before  ; 

He  left  by  night  the  frozen  zone 
And  smote  the  cliffs  of  Labrador  ; 

He  lashed  the  coasts  on  either  hand, 

And  betwixt  the  Cape  and  Newfoundland 
Into  the  Bay  his  armies  pour. 

He  caught  our  helpless  cruisers  there 
As  a  gray  wolf  harries  the  huddling  fold 

A  sleet  —  a  darkness  —  filled  the  air, 
A  shuddering  wave  before  it  rolled  : 

That  Lord's-day  morn  it  was  a  breeze,  — 

At  noon,  a  blast  that  shook  the  seas,  — 
At  night,  —  a  wind  of  Death  took  hold  ! 

It  leapt  across  the  Breton  bar, 

A  death-wind  from  the  stormy  East ! 

It  scarred  the  land,  and  whirled  afar 
The  sheltering  thatch  of  man  and  beast ; 

It  mingled  rick  and  roof  and  tree, 

And  like  a  besom  swept  the  sea, 
And  churned  the  waters  into  yeast- 

From  Saint  Paul's  light  to  Edward  Isle 
A  thousand  craft  it  smote  amain  ; 

And  some  against  it  strove  the  while, 
And  more  to  make  a  port  were  fain  : 

The  mackerel-gulls  flew  screaming  past, 


THE  LORD'S-DAY  GALE.  411 

And  the  stick  that  bent  to  the  noonday  blast 
Was  split  by  the  sundown  hurricane. 

Woe,  woe  to  those  whom  the  islands  pen  ! 

In  vain  they  shun  the  double  capes  : 
Cruel  are  the  reefs  of  Magdalen ; 

The  Wolfs  white  fang  what  prey  escapes  ? 
The  Grin'stone  grinds  the  bones  of  some, 
And  Coffin  Isle  is  craped  with  foam ;  — 

On  Deadman's  shore  are  fearful  shapes  ! 

O,  what  can  live  on  the  open  sea, 
Or  moored  in  port  the  gale  outride  ? 

The  very  craft  that  at  anchor  be 

Are  dragged  along  by  the  swollen  tide  1 

The  great  storm-wave  came  rolling  west, 

And  tossed  the  vessels  on  its  crest : 
The  ancient  bounds  its  might  defied ! 

The  ebb  to  check  it  had  no  power  ; 

The  surf  ran  up  an  untold  height ; 
It  rose,  nor  yielded,  hour  by  hour, 

A  night  and  day,  a  day  and  night ; 
Far  up  the  seething  shores  it  cast 
The  wrecks  of  hull  and  spar  and  mast, 

The  strangled  crews,  —  a  woful  sight ! 

There  were  twenty  and  more  of  Breton  sail 
Fast  anchored  on  one  mooring-ground  ; 

Each  lay  within  his  neighbor's  hail 

When  the  thick  of  the  tempest  closed  them 
round : 

All  sank  at  once  in  the  gaping  sea,  — 

Somewhere  on  the  shoals  their  corses  be, 
The  foundered  hulks,  and  the  seamen  drowned. 


412  LATER  POEMS. 

On  reef  and  bar  our  schooners  drove 

Before  the  wind,  before  the  swell ; 
By  the  steep  sand-cliffs  their  ribs  were  stove,-— 

Long,  long,  their  crews  the  tale  shall  tell ! 
Of  the  Gloucester  fleet  are  wrecks  threescore  ; 
Of  the  Province  sail  two  hundred  more 

Were  stranded  in  that  tempest  fell. 

The  bedtime  bells  in  Gloucester  Town 
That  Sabbath  night  rang  soft  and  clear  ; 

The  sailors'  children  laid  them  down,  — 

Dear  Lord  !  their  sweet  prayers  couldst  thou  hear  ? 

'T  is  said  that  gently  blew  the  winds  ; 

The  goodwives,  through  the  seaward  blinds, 
Looked  down  the  bay  and  had  no  fear. 

New  England  !  NewJEngland  ! 

Thy  ports  their  dauntless  seamen  mourn  ; 
The  twin  capes  yearn  for  their  return 

Who  never  shall  be  thither  borne  ; 
Their  orphans  whisper  as  they  meet  ; 
The  homes  are  dark  in  many  a  street, 

And  women  move  in  weeds  forlorn. 

And  wilt  thou  quail,  and  dost  thou  fear  ? 

Ah,  no  !  though  widows'  cheeks  are  pale, 
The  lads  shall  say  :  "  Another  year, 

And  we  shall  be  of  age  to  sail  !  " 
And  the  mothers'  hearts  shall  fill  with  pride, 
Though  tears  drop  fast  for  them  who  died 

When  the  fleet  was  wrecked  in  the  Lord's-Day  gale. 


L'ENVOI. 


AD   VATEM. 

WHITTIER  I  the  Land  that  loves  thee,  she  whose 
child 

Thou  art,  —  and  whose  uplifted  hands  thou  long 
Hast  stayed  with  song  availing  like  a  prayer,  — 
She  feels  a  sudden  pang,  who  gave  thee  birth 
And  gave  to  thee  the  lineaments  supreme 
Of  her  own  freedom,  that  she  could  not  make 
Thy  tissues  all  immortal,  or,  if  to  change, 
To  bloom  through  years  coeval  with  her  own  ; 
So  that  no  touch  of  age  nor  frost  of  time 
Should  wither  thee,  nor  furrow  thy  dear  face, 
Nor  fleck  thy  hair  with  silver.     Ay,  she  feels 
A  double  pang  that  thee,  with  each  new  year, 
Glad  Youth  may  not  revisit,  like  the  Spring 
That  routs  her  northern  Winter  and  anew 
Melts  off  the  hoar  snow  from  her  puissant  hills. 
She  could  not  make  thee  deathless  ;  no,  but  thoo, 
Thou  sangest  her  always  in  abiding  verse 
And  hast  thy  fame  immortal  —  as  we  say 
Immortal  in  this  Earth  that  yet  must  die, 
And  in  this  land  now  fairest  and  most  young 
Of  all  fair  lands  that  yet  must  perish  with  it. 
Thy  words  shall  last :  albeit  thou  growest  old, 
Men  say ;  but  never  old  the  poet's  soul 
Becomes  ;  only  its  covering  takes  on 


41 6  AD    VATEM. 

A  reverend  splendour,  as  in  the  misty  fall 

Thine  own  auroral  forests,  ere  at  last 

Passes  the  spirit  of  the  wooded  dell. 

And  stay  thou  with  us  long ;  vouchsafe  us  long 

This  brave  autumnal  presence,  ere  the  hues 

Slow  fading,  —  ere  the  quaver  of  thy  voice, 

The  twilight  of  thine  eye,  move  men  to  ask 

Where  hides  the  chariot,  —  in  what  sunset  vaie, 

Beyond  thy  chosen  river,  champ  the  steeds 

That  wait  to  bear  thee  skyward  ?     Since  we  too 

Would  feign  thee,  in  our  tenderness,  to  be 

Inviolate,  excepted  from  thy  kind, 

And  that  our  bard  and  prophet  best-beloved 

Shall  vanish  like  that  other  :  him  that  stood 

Undaunted  in  the  pleasure-house  of  kings, 

And  unto  kings  and  crowned  harlots  spake 

God's  truth  and  judgment.     At  his  sacred  feet 

Far  followed  all  the  lesser  men  of  old 

Whose  lips  were  touched  with  fire,  and  caught  from  him 

The  gift  of  prophecy ;  and  thus  from  thee, 

Whittier,  the  younger  singers,  —  whom  thou  seest 

Each  emulous  to  be  thy  staff  this  day,  — 

What  learned  they  ?  righteous  anger,  burning  scorn 

Of  the  oppressor,  love  to  humankind, 

Sweet  fealty  to  country  and  to  home, 

Peace,  stainless  purity,  high  thoughts  of  heaven, 

And  the  clear,  natural  music  of  thy  song. 


THE    END. 


INDEX  OF   FIRST  LINES. 


A  cloister  tale,  —  a  strange  and  ancient  thing,  382. 

A  wind  and  a  voice  from  the  North,  310. 

Afterward,  soon  as  the  chaste  Persephone  hither  and  thither,  351 

All  night  we  hear  the  rattling  flaw,  279. 

Back  from  the  trebly  crimsoned  field,  289. 

Bayard,  awaken  not  this  music  strong,  265. 

Bring  no  more  flowers  and  books  and  precious  things,  71. 

But,  now,  far  other  days,  314. 

C:  me  the  morning  of  that  day,  287. 

Clothed  in  sable,  crowned  with  gold,  257. 

Cloud  and  flame  on  the  dark  frontier,  113. 

Come,  let  us  burst  the  cerements  and  the  shroud,  263. 

Could  we  but  know,  278. 

Crouch  no  more  by  the  wild  walls,  28. 

Dear  Friend  and  Teacher,  —  not  by  word  alone,  44. 
Do  you  remember  our  charming  times,  179. 

Earth,  let  thy  softest  mantle  rest,  321. 

Far  in  the  western  ocean's  breast,  75. 

Flight  of  a  meteor  through  the  sky,  115. 

"  Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do,"  2g> 


Gone  at  last,  300. 

Gone  the  Arcadian  age,  313. 

Great  Ares,  whose  tempestuous  godhood  found,  145. 

Had  I,  my  love  declared,  the  tireless  wing,  162. 

Hark  !  the  jingle,  56. 

Harp  of  New  England  song,  391. 

Hendrick  Van  Ghelt  of  Monmouth  shore,  91. 

Here,  in  Learning's  shaded  haunt,  315. 

How  many  years  have  made  their  flights,  2701 

How  slow,  how  sure,  how  swift,  316. 

I  have  a  little  kinsman,  380. 

I  know  not  if  moonlight  or  starlight,  403. 

I  loved  :  and  in  the  morning  sky,  79. 

I  walk  in  the  morning  twilight,  21. 

If  I  had  been  a  rich  man's  girl,  253. 


41 8  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 

In  fallow  college  days,  Tom  rfarland,  58. 
In  Gloucester  port  lie  fishing  craft,  407. 
In  January,  when  down  the  dairy,  247. 
Is  it  naught  ?  is  it  naught,  297. 
Is  there  naught  else  ?  you  say,  317. 

Jehn  Brown  in  Kansas  settled,  like  a  steadfast  Yankee  farmer,  64. 
Just  at  sunrise,  when  the  land-breeze  cooled  the  fevered  air  once  more, 
Just  where  the  Treasury's  marble  front,  250. 

Ladies,  in  silks  and  laces,  101. 

Lady,  had  the  lot  been  mine,  406. 

Last  August,  of  a  three  weeks'  country  tour,  48. 

Lastly  the  moon  went  down  ;  like  burnished  steel,  139. 

Laura,  my  darling,  the  roses  have  blushed,  239. 

Leaning  her  face  on  her  hand,  130. 

Like  an  affluent,  royal  town,  the  summer  camps,  n8. 

Long  since,  there  was  a  Princess  of  the  blood,  189. 

Love,  from  that  summer  morn,  107. 

Nature  a  devious  by-way  finds :  solve  me  her  secret  whim,  94. 
No  clouds  are  in  the  morning  sky,  275. 
Not  thus,  Ulysses,  with  a  tender  word,  17. 
Not  yet !     No,  no,  — you  would  not  quote,  327. 

O  lark!  sweet  lark!  21. 

O  long  are  years  of  waiting,  when  lovers'  hearts  are  bound,  376. 

O  Love !  Love !  Love !  what  times  were  those,  10. 

O,  trained  beneath  the  Northern  Star,  320. 

O  wretched  woman  indeed,  and  O  most  wise,  355. 

Of  all  the  beautiful  demons  who  fasten  on  human  hearts,  158. 

Olympia  ?  Yes,  strange  tidings  from  the  city,  334. 

On  river  and  height  and  salty  moors  the  haze  of  autumn  fell,  108. 

Once  more,  dear  mother  Earth,  we  stand,  329. 

Once  more  on  the  fallow  hillside,  as  of  old,  1  lie  at  rest,  134. 

One  by  one  they  died,  244. 

One  can  never  quite  forget,  241. 

One  such  there  was,  that  brother  elder-born,  318 

Only  the  sunny  hours,  404. 

Our  good  steeds  snuff  the  evening  air,  120. 

Out,  out,  Old  Age !  aroint  ye !  369. 

Poet,  wherefore  hither  bring,  187. 
Prithee  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin,  238. 

Queen  Katherine  of  Arragon,  165. 
Queen  of  the  shadowy  clime,  80. 

Rifle  the  sweets  our  meadows  bear,  105. 

Seven  women  loved  him.     When  the  wrinkled  pall,  152, 

She  seemed  an  angel  to  our  infant  eyes,  72. 

Silent  they  were,  not  sad  ;  for  the  sod  that  covers  the  grave 

Sir  Ulric  a  Southern  dame  has  wed,  168. 

Sleeping,  I  dreamed  that  thou  wast  mine,  240. 

So  that  soldierly  legend  is  still  on  its  journey,  324. 

Sometimes  within  my  hand,  259. 

Sons  of  New  England,  in  the  fray,  291. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES.  419 

Spake  each  mother  to  her  son,  HI. 

Splendors  of  morning  the  billow-crests  brighten,  237. 

Sprung  was  the  bow  at  last,  128. 

"  Steady!  forward  the  squadron!  "  cries,  132. 

The  conference-meeting  through  at  last,  242. 

The  fair  Earth  smiled  and  turned  herself  and  woke,  272. 

The  strawberry-vines  lie  in  the  sun,  103. 

The  sunlight  fills  the  trembling  air,  276. 

The  sunset  darkens  in  the  west,  261. 

The  sweetest  sound  our  whole  year  round,  389. 

The  tryst  is  kept.     How  fares  it  with  each  one,  338. 

There  's  an  hour,  at  the  fall  of  night,  when  the  blissful  souls,  137. 

Thou  art  mine,  thou  hast  given  thy  word,  371. 

Thou  shall  have  sun  and  shower  from  heaven  above,  398. 

Through  Arkddi's  shattered  pile,  299. 

Thus,  —  when  ended  the  morning  tramp,  123. 

'Tis  fifteen  hundred  years,  you  say,  373. 

To  many  a  one  there  comes  a  day,  40. 

'T  was  the  season  of  feasts,  when  the  blithe  birds  had  met,  336. 

Twelve  hundred  miles  and  more,  255. 

Two  thousand  feet  in  air  it  stands,  266. 

V 

Voice 

Waking,  I  have  been  nigh  to  death,  279. 

Wave,  wave  your  glorious  battle-flags,  brave  soldiers  of  the  North!  303, 

We  stood  around  the  dreamless  form,  281. 

Wear  no  armor,  timid  heart,  135. 

Well,  Helen,  quite  two  years  have  flown,  160. 

Well  may  your  hearts  be  valiant,  — ye  who  stand,  319. 

What  ho !  dumb  jpster,  cease  to  grin  and  mask  it !  400. 

"  What  shall  my  song  rehearse  ?  "  I  said,  311. 

What !  shall  that  sudden  blade,  325. 

What  would  you  do,  my  dear  one  said,  283. 

When  April  rains  and  the  great  spring-tide,  121. 

When  buttercups  are  blossoming,  3. 

When  the  rude  world's  relentless  war  has  pressed,  163. 

Where  nowadays  the  Battery  lies,  170. 

Which  is  the  Wind  that  brings  the  cold,  275. 

Whither  away,  Robin,  372. 

Whittier  !  the  Land  that  loves  thee,  she  whose  child,  415. 

Why  should  I  constant  be?  405. 

Within  our  summer  hermitage,  365. 


rainly,  O  burning  Poets,  40. 
roice  of  the  western  wind,  29. 


Yestermorn  the  air  was  dry,  25. 

Zounds!  how  the  price  went  flashing  through,  293. 


INDEX   OF  TITLES. 


[The  titles  in  small  capital  letters  are  those  of  the  principal  divisions  of 
the  book ;  those  in  lower  case  are  of  single  poems  or  the  subdivisions  of 
long  poems.] 


Ad  Vatem,  415. 

Feast  of  Harvest,  The,  272. 

Admiral,  The  Old,  300. 

Flight  of  the  Birds,  The,  372. 

Alectryon,  145. 

Flood-Tide,  30. 

ALICE  OF  MONMOUTH,  91. 

Freshet,  The,  48. 

All  in  a  Lifetime,  398. 

Fuit  Ilium,  244. 

Amavi,  79. 

Anonyma,  253. 
Apollo,  40. 

Gettysburg,  303. 
Greeley,  Horace,  321. 

Arnold,  George,  281. 

Assault  by  Night,  The,  279. 
At  Twilight,  261. 
Autumn  Song,  275. 

Hawthorne,  391. 
Heart  of  New  England,  The,  376. 
Heather,  With  a  Sprig  of,  406. 

Heliotrope,  21. 

Ballad  of  Lager  Bier,  The,  58. 

Hillside  Door,  The,  259. 

Betrothed  Anew,  276. 
BLAMELESS  PRINCE,  THE,  187. 

Holyoke  Valley,  270. 
Hope  Deferred,  71. 

Bohemia  :  A  Pilgrimage,  3. 

How    Old     Brown  took    Harper's 

—  

Ferry,  64. 

Comedian's  Last  Night,  The,  327. 
Country  Sleighing,  247. 
Crabbed  Age  and  Youth,  369. 

Hypatia,  373. 
Israel  Freyer's  Bid  for  Gold,  293. 

Crete,  299. 

Cuba,  297. 

Jean  Prouvaire's  Song  at  the  Barri- 

Custer, 325. 

cade,  179. 

"  Darkness  and  the  Shadow,"  279. 

Kearney  at  Seven  Pines,  324. 

Dartmouth  Ode,  310. 

Death   of  Agamemnon,   The   (from 

LATER  POEMS,  365. 

Homer),  351. 
Death    of  Agamemnon,  The   (from 
Aischylos),  355. 

Laura,  my  Darling,  239. 
Le  Jour  du  Rossignol,  336. 
L'ENVOI,  415. 

Diamond  Wedding,  The,  10. 
Discoverer,  The,  380. 

Lincoln,  Abraham,  293. 
Lord's-Day  Gale,  The,  407. 

Doorstep,  The,  242. 

Duke'.s  Exequy,  The,  257. 

Madrigal,  405. 

Meridian,  338. 

EARLY  POEMS,  3. 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS,  145,  237. 

Edged  Tools,  160. 

Montagu,  165. 

Elfin  Song,  75. 

Monument  of  Greeley,  The,  329. 

Estelle,  158. 

Mountain,  The,  266. 

422 


INDEX  OF  TITLES. 


News  from  Olympia,  334. 

OCCASIONAL  POEMS,  287. 
Ode  to  Pastoral  Romance,  So. 
Old  Love  and  the  New,  The,  1 54. 
Ordeal  by  Fire,  The,  40. 

Pan  in  Wall  Street,  250. 

Penelope,  17. 

Peter  Stuyvesant's  New  Year's  Call, 

170. 

POEMS  OF  NATURE,  263. 
POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH,  75. 
Protest  of  Faith,  The,  44. 

Refuge  in  Nature,  163. 
Rosemary,  23. 

Sad  Bridal,  The,  283. 

Seeking  the  Mayflower,  389. 

Shadow-Land,  278. 

Singer,  The,  21. 

Sister  Beatrice,  382. 

Skull  in  the  Gold  Drift,  The,  400. 

Sleigh-Ride,  The,  56. 

Song  from  a  Drama,  403. 

SONGS  AND  STUDIES,  237 

Songster,  The,  365. 


SONNETS,  71. 
Spoken  at  Sea,  255. 
Stanzas  for  Music,  371 
Summer  Rain,  25. 
Sumter,  287. 
Sun-Dial,  The,  404. 
Surf,  237. 
Swallow,  The,  162. 

Taylor,  Bayard,  To,  265. 
Test,  The,  152. 
Too  Late,  28. 
Toujours  Amour,  238. 
TRANSLATIONS,  179,  351. 
Treason's  Last  Device,  291. 
Tryst,  The,  240. 

Undiscovered  Country,  The,  278. 

Violet  Eyes,  241. 

Voice  of  the  Western  Wind,  29. 

Wanted  — A  Man,  289. 

What  the  Winds  bring,  275. 

Wild  Winds  whistle,  168. 
I  With  a  Sprig  of  Heather,  406. 
1  Woods  and  Waters,  263. 


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